


Another World

by canis_lupus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-07-19
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 93,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_lupus/pseuds/canis_lupus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no rest for Harry Potter: Just as he thinks he may have succeeded in ridding himself and the world of Voldemort, he gets sucked into another world...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Begun after OotP, this is now AU from canon as well as being about an alternate universe in the first place. It is also a work in progress, with an irregular update schedule, and the possibility that I might need to go back to posted chapters and edit them.  
> It's also been in the works for about 10 years, so forgive the rough nature of the early chapters. One day, I might go back and fix them up, but if I start that now, I'll never finish this story, so that has to wait.

Lily Potter stood there and looked at the dead body of her only son. The tears threatened again to spill down her cheeks and blur her sight, but she kept them back for the time being.

He looked so young and innocent as he lay there.

The tears got their will and started to fall.

God, he’d been such an idiot. How could he? Hadn’t he ever thought of her, what he was doing to her?

No, he probably hadn’t. And look where it got him- dead by the age of twenty-one.

Her crying intensified and she had to catch hold of one of the bars of his cell.

Had it been her fault? She had loved him so much, she and James, they both had. His birth had been difficult; apparently her pelvic structure was somewhat odd and made giving birth to children a dangerous matter, so the Healers had warned her against risking it again for a second child. She had been a bit disappointed, but at least she had had her Harry, and it was enough for her. And for James, too.

Apparently, they’d spoilt him rotten.

Their friends all told them they shouldn’t blame themselves for what their son had become, but they did nonetheless.

If they’d been stricter, if they’d told him ‘no’ sometimes…

She should have seen it coming. She was his mother, she really should have.

He always had had quite a temper. When he was furious, he’d destroy everything that crossed his path. And he was powerful. He’d proved that before he could even walk and talk. In a fit of temper, he’d levitate everything within a four foot radius when he was still a toddler. Later, he broke everything in his proximity in a mindless rush of accidental magic.

By the time he got to Hogwarts, he was used to getting everything he wanted. If he didn’t, he’d scream and rant until he got his way.

Now, in hindsight, Lily could see that.

But back then, she couldn’t. Or didn’t want to. Sometimes she had felt a little pang of worry when she’d given in to his tantrums once more, but when she tried to talk to James about it, he just laughed it off and told her not to worry, that was just the way children were, wasn’t it?

And, of course, Harry could be so incredibly SWEET. When he was happy and smiled it was just like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. It made people WANT to make him happy, just so they could see that sweet smile again. And she, as his mother, was no exception. Neither was James.

When he returned from school for the summer holidays, he used to complain about the children who were slower than he was, which was pretty much everyone. He really did resemble his father in many ways, and not all of them were favourable.

She had tried to talk to him, get him to show a bit of understanding for the other children, but he’d just snort contemptuously and change the topic.

And she had let it slide. Once again.

What had really woken her up to the true state of affairs was when he started talking about “Mudbloods” when he was fifteen, and in his fourth year. That had gotten even James’ attention, especially since Harry had been referring to HER in that way, and for the first and only time in his life, Harry had found himself on the wrong end of his parents’ tempers. What followed had been one spectacularly huge row, during which he’d said a lot of very nasty things, mainly about Lily, but some about his father, too, and he’d shown that he’d somehow come to be under the influence of the hard-core right-wing Wizard-traditionalists.

The next day, he’d been gone.

They searched everywhere, but it was four months later that they discovered, to their horror (and through the paper!), that he’d run to Tom Riddle, or ‘Lord Voldemort’ as he called himself, and joined the ranks of the Death Eaters.

They’d not met him in person for the following six years.

Voldemort had been making trouble for the last thirty-and-some years, but it was a kind of cold war. He was secretly gaining more and more power and followers. There were a few squabbles with the Aurors now and then, but nothing anyone really could pin on him.

Everyone with half a brain (in Lily’s opinion- unfortunately, that seemed to be about one percent of the population) could see that all that madman wanted was power, and lots of it. Unfortunately, he had a very winning and charming personality and managed to persuade people time and again that he just wanted the best for the Wizarding World. Most people just looked the other way and told themselves that everything would work out fine.

Albus Dumbledore was the only one who opposed him openly, and he had a hard time of it. Muggles weren’t regarded too fondly in general in the Wizarding World of the twenty-first century and the tolerance for Muggle-born witches and wizards was crumbling.

Even six years ago, Voldemort had slowly become more aggressive and there had been an increase in strange “accidents” resulting in the deaths of, conveniently, critics of Voldemort’s propaganda.

It hadn’t been until the beginning of this year that the shit had hit the fan. But when it finally did, it did so spectacularly.

The Death Eaters wreaked terror and havoc over Wizarding Britain. People died, and got tortured; fear and panic reigned. Hogwarts and Dumbledore seemed to be the last bastions of sanity in a world gone mad. Children were kidnapped from the doorstep, men and women were killed seemingly randomly on the streets in broad daylight. The Aurors were always too late, underpaid and understaffed as they were. The Ministry tried to deny it all.

And in the middle of it all was her son, performing only the gods knew what horrors. She didn’t want to know.

He was still her son. She still loved him.

And then, three months of chaos later, the Death Eaters tried to storm Hogwarts. They failed. For the first time since the all-out war started, they failed. There were deaths on each side, but those at Hogwarts managed to force them to retreat.

They left her son lying on the battlefield. Their other wounded they had taken with them, but Harry they left behind, still alive.

She had briefly wondered about it, but not overmuch. She had been too anxious to speak to her son again.

At least until she learned WHY he’d been left behind. Mad-Eye Moody had provided the information, since her son only sneered and variously hissed insults at her or ignored her in favour of sulking in his cell.

Apparently, Moody had been duelling with one of the high-ranking Death Eaters when Harry got thrown between them by a spell from somewhere else. Just then, the Death Eater fired a spell at Moody and Harry got hit with it accidentally. It turned out to be a Dark Draining Curse, kind of a slow Avada Kedavra. There was no countercurse for it. They had left Harry behind because he was already dead, it was just a matter of time.

So, Lily sat with him these last two hours, while he wasted away in front of her eyes. He knew what was happening to him, but he showed no remorse. He refused to make up with her or with James. He hadn’t grown up one bit since he ran away. He was still spoilt, still sulking like a child and refusing to take responsibility for anything right until the minute he died.

Lily thought he probably hadn’t believed he really would die. He’d probably thought that if he sulked enough at the injustice of it all, Death would back off and he’d get whatever he wanted, just like he always had.

Death wasn’t impressed.

Lily choked back an hysterical little laugh at her own thoughts. He was dead, and he’d been a brat and nasty to her, but she still loved him. He was still her stupid little boy and she just wished she could see that sweet smile once again. But he was dead.

She let her eyes linger on the still form on the small bed in the cell.

His dark brown hair looked truly black in the dim light and the soft red highlights in it were invisible. A few freckles stood out in stark contrast on his pale skin and his eyes, sky-blue like James’, were closed forever.

She choked back another sob and felt a gentle hand settle on her shoulder. Startled, she jumped and turned, only to look into James’ sorrowful and compassionate eyes. She burst into a new fit of tears and buried her head on his shoulder, seeking the comfort of his strong arms.

***

A few minutes later she got a grip on herself again and followed James to the table at the other end of the big dungeon room, where Dumbledore was waiting. The old man’s expression was grave. Despite today’s victory, they were still on the losing side and they all knew it.

Without much preamble, Dumbledore started right in. Their situation was bad. Voldemort was winning, and they couldn’t let that happen. He most certainly wouldn’t be content with Wizarding Britain, or all of Britain at that. They had to do something.

So much they all knew.

Then Dumbledore smiled a bit and produced an ancient roll of parchment. Gasps could be heard around the table. Could it be…?

Dumbledore nodded. Yes, it was. He’d really succeeded in laying his hands on the formula for the “Ritual of Salvation”. It was an ancient myth that there was a ritual which would, in a time of great need, bring the caster a weapon to defeat the Dark. They’d been speculating about the ritual for months, trying to think what kind of weapon it could be and if they would be able to cast it, if their cause was strong enough…

Dumbledore hadn’t let on much, as usual, but they knew him well enough to suspect he probably was hot on a trail to get to the text. And, apparently, he had.

The old blue eyes were twinkling rather mischievously as he announced that they were ready to perform it, thanks to the translation courtesy of Miss Granger. The young brown haired woman inclined her head at the praise, and Lily considered her for a moment.

She didn’t know much about Hermione Granger apart from the fact that she, too, was Muggle-born and was considered a genius. Why she had been in Gryffindor rather than in Ravenclaw, Lily couldn’t fathom, but it was true that she was very intelligent. She seemed a bit too dry and book-wormy for Lily’s tastes, combined with a strict sense of duty and a firm belief in authority that gave her a rather startling resemblance to Professor McGonagall. And indeed, McGonagall seemed to have assumed the role of a mentor for her.

There was a crash from the fireplace, and the youngest son of Molly and Arthur Weasley stumbled out. He wore his Auror robes and was covered in soot.

“’Scuse me for being late…” He smiled a bit sheepishly while trying to brush himself off. His gaze flicked to the lifeless form on the bed in the cell and then to Lily and James. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but obviously thought better of it and snapped his mouth shut as he moved over to take a seat at the table.

That was as well, because if he’d said anything about her son and about how glad he was that he was dead, Lily would have had to hex him. Lily knew that he and her son hadn’t gotten along at all and the fact that they had had to share a House and a common room hadn’t particularly helped. And since Ronald Weasley wasn’t exactly famous for his displays of tact, it was certainly better if he didn’t say anything at all.

They started to discuss the ritual in earnest and what they would need to do in order to perform it.

~ +++ ~

The wind blew cold over the battle field, a few snow flakes drifting along in its wake.

Distractedly, Harry watched as the snow flakes settled on the hard frozen ground before looking numbly back at the scenery before him.

Behind him Voldemort’s corpse lay on the ground. He had finally killed him. After six long, dreadful years of raging war, he had finally killed the bastard who ruined his life.

Too late. Too late for so many of his friends.

A few feet away Hermione knelt on the ground, heedless of the thin covering of snow slowly soaking into her robes, holding Ron’s lifeless body cradled in her arms, crying softly. Ron’s blue eyes stared sightlessly at the low, light grey sky above them.

Harry’s eyes drifted to the body of Draco Malfoy lying close to them on the ground, and the gaping hole in his chest, a slowly spreading pool of blood swallowing the last remains of white snow beneath his body. Blood speckled the front of his white shirt as well, congealing in reddish-brown dots.

Harry knew what had happened. Ron and Malfoy had been duelling. Malfoy had cast the Killing Curse on Ron. Harry could have told Ron that he was too slow for Malfoy. Seeing her fiancé die had snapped something in Hermione. She’d killed Malfoy. Harry could have told him that he was no match for an enraged Hermione.

As he looked at the scene before him, Harry felt nothing. It hurt so much that he felt simply cold and numb. Like when Sirius died, all these years ago. The first of his loved ones; not the last. His gaze travelled back to Draco’s body.

He was beautiful even in death. His arch-nemesis. His lover, for just one night.

They’d known it. They’d both known it, for years, that they’d fallen for each other a long time ago. They’d never talked about it. Their loyalties were too different, and neither he nor Draco was ready to give up his side of the fight. Not even for each other.

And yesterday, when it became clear that today would be it, that today would bring the end to this war, when everyone was asleep, Draco had stolen into Harry’s little set of rooms in Hogwarts, God only knew how. Harry hadn’t asked. He’d just taken what was offered to him.

For one night, they’d been lovers; for one night they’d not spoken of the fight or of politics or of what was to come. For one night, they’d been happy in each other’s arms, had talked about everything and anything and had made love; for one night they’d allowed each other this forbidden, bitter-sweet pleasure, knowing that today would end it all.

If they’d both survived, perhaps they could have tried to make something work. Or perhaps not. If he’d survived, Draco would have spent the rest of his life in Azkaban, if he’d not have been executed right away. Now the question would never arise.

Harry’s eyes travelled farther to where Fred was kneeling, his arms around his brother, similar to Hermione, only George wasn’t dead. Instead, he was looking sightlessly into the distance. A Dementor had apparently gotten to him before Fred had reduced it to a pile of ash the wind was blowing smoky tendrils off of. It reminded Harry of Snape, who’d looked just as sightlessly to the front some three years ago, before he’d thrown himself off one of Hogwarts many towers.

It had been Voldemort’s little present to them when he’d discovered that Snape was a spy: Snape’s soulless body.

Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange were dead, too. Harry had killed them himself when they tried to keep him from getting to Voldemort.

All around on the trampled, frozen snow between Hogwarts and the Forbidden Forest were dark figures lying on the ground, blood and other things oozing staining the earth, congealing and freezing in the cold Scottish March air.

They’d won, but at what price?

Harry felt cold. Why was he still alive? For a moment he’d thought that he’d die with Voldemort, his scar had hurt so much. But it had passed, and when he’d been able to see again without the red haze of pure pain before his eyes, he’d been standing here in this cold black and white scenery of death.

 _And now_? he asked himself.

What was to happen now? They’d won. Shouldn’t he be happy that they’d won? At least a bit glad that it was all over?

The cold wind swirled the edges of his black battle cloak. He didn’t feel anything. Which was probably a good thing. He didn’t want to know how many more friends he’d lost today. There were hardly any left.

Remus had died two years after Sirius, in Harry’s seventh year when the werewolves went over to Voldemort. They’d torn his body apart.

Ginny and Neville had been killed by Death Eaters when they spent the Easter Holidays at the Burrow in the year after Remus’ death. Neville had died a hero, fighting to his last breath, together they’d taken out seven Death Eaters before they were killed.

Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks and Arthur Weasley had been overwhelmed when the Death Eaters stormed Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Still no one had discovered how Voldemort had found it.

And the list went on… Hagrid, Charlie, Luna, Seamus, McGonagall, Madam Hooch, Madam Pomfrey, Kingsley Shacklebolt… Most of the people he knew, actually.

He’d killed Voldemort, but too late, so much too late…

Harry sighed wearily and turned around to look at the body of He-Who-made-his-life-Hell once more.

The body was glowing.

Harry blinked.

Yes, it was glowing. A little circle of clear white light started to spread out around it. Intrigued, Harry stepped closer. He knew he shouldn’t, it was probably dangerous, but his curiosity was once again getting the better of him and frankly, he didn’t care about what happened to him very much right now.

The circle of light started to spread out wider and shone with a persistent strength. Harry took another step towards it.

It flared up brightly, he heard a faint “Harry, NO!” that might have come from Hermione, then the light swallowed him.

***

Hermione watched in horror as the strange light engulfed Harry and made his form waver for a moment. She’d just noticed at the last moment that something was going on, and she had no clue as to where the light might have come from.

Now it faded and a body hit the ground with an awful-sounding thud. Frantically, Hermione scrambled to the still form.

It was Harry, but he looked… strange. Something about his face was not right. Quickly, Hermione checked for a pulse. There was none and he felt cold and clammy under her hands as if he’d been dead for some time already. The tears started running down her cheeks again, even though she didn’t feel that much at the moment. Her emotions were so overwhelming that there didn’t seem to be enough room for all of them. She’d just lost her two best friends, one of them her lover.

Still, her mind, active as always, nagged her about there being something wrong with Harry’s face. He looked like… like his own identical twin, only not exactly identical.

He had a few freckles on his nose. Hermione knew with absolute certainty that Harry had never had freckles- at least not in places she had seen of him. And his hair… There was something wrong with his hair. It had kind of a reddish hue that he just didn’t have. Harry’s hair was ink-black, as black as Snape’s had been, as black as hair could be. This person’s hair was a very, very dark brown, almost black, but just almost.

And the lines of his face… they were too soft.

They were missing that worn look Harry had gained over the years, which didn’t even leave him in his sleep anymore. They all had that look.

This person looked… young. A kind of young that Harry wasn’t, and probably never had been.

His lips were too full, especially his lower one, giving him a nearly pouting expression. Yes, somehow his facial lines were a trace softer than they should be.

This stranger wasn’t Harry, Hermione’s mind decided. On the other hand, apart from these slight differences it LOOKED like Harry. To everyone who wasn’t as intimate with his every expression like she was, it would look perfectly like Harry. Perhaps she was just making stuff up because she couldn’t believe that she’d lost both her best friends in the course of one day?

But Hermione Granger’s mind wasn’t prone to making things up, no matter what her emotional condition was.

She slipped out her wand and performed a simple little visual recording charm of her own creation. She would be able to create a three-dimensional illusion from it and study it in peace later.

Then Dumbledore came limping onto the battle field, leaning heavily on his cane and looking as worn and tired as they all felt, and Hermione was the one who had to tell him what happened on this terrible day. She didn’t tell him her suspicions about the dead Harry not being Harry, though, because as much as she trusted her mind, she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in case she was wrong.

~ +++ ~

_So, this is what dying feels like…_ Harry thought idly as he was pulled somewhere by the light. There even was a dark tunnel he was racing through with a light at the end of it. And it became bigger.

 _Let’s just hope it’s not a train_ , he thought sarcastically.

***

They stopped chanting and the runes they had drawn on the bare stones of the dungeon floor flared up once and then faded.

Nothing further happened.

After a few moments they stopped staring at the floor and started to look around and at each other questioningly.

Hadn’t it worked? Was their cause too weak?

Shuffling started as everyone began to turn to look left and right for that weapon the spell should bring them.

Perchance, Lily looked towards the cell.

And gasped.

Everyone looked up and shot her questioning looks, but she just stared and, one by one, the others followed her line of sight and more gasps could be heard.

A single, slightly ragged beam of light was shooting out of the forehead of the body of her son. It was the same light the runes had emitted for a moment.

It grew brighter, engulfing the whole body, then it faded.

There was a soft groan and Harry’s hands twitched and came up to cover his face.

***

Forcefully, Harry was slammed back into his body. It felt like he’d just fallen from quite a distance and he groaned. He’d reached the light at the end of the tunnel and it had gone blindingly bright for a moment before fading into darkness.

 _Seems like it was a train after all…_ he thought with a mental snort.

At least his head hurt like it had just connected with one, or rather, like someone had just shoved a branding iron on his scar.

He brought his hands up reflexively to cover his face as if he could block the pain out with them.

 _Hold on a moment…_ His scar had gone numb after Voldemort died. He hadn’t really noticed, since he’d felt so numb overall, but now it was hurting again in that all too familiar way.

What was going on? Presuming he was dead, had he gone to hell to suffer Voldemort’s presence for the rest of eternity? He felt like complaining. After the hell his life had been, and after all he had been through, he would have thought he deserved at least a little peace in his afterlife. Perhaps he’d committed some horrible things in one of his former life-times and now had to pay for it by an eternity of Voldemort?

 _Well, great_ , he muttered sarcastically to himself. _Perhaps he manages to talk me to death this time._

And why did he have a body, anyway? To make the hellish tortures more effective? Carefully, Harry lowered his hands and blinked.

It was dark. He was lying on something that felt like a small and hard mattress. Not that he was complaining. He’d slept on worse.

There was a damp chill in the air that said, quite clearly, “dungeon”. Over his head he could make out a ceiling made of stone and he had the impression of a stone wall to his left side out of the corner of his eye. Definitely a dungeon.

The chill air raised goose pimples on his bare shoulders.

_Hang on. Bare shoulders?_

He realised he wasn’t wearing a shirt and only something that felt like pyjama bottoms or hospital attire. Most certainly not his usual attire of jeans, shirt and battle cloak. Most certainly not the clothes he’d had on him when he was standing on the battle field. And most certainly, he didn’t have his usual arsenal of weapons on him. That was a worrying thought. And WHERE in all nine hells was he, anyway?

***

Numb with incredulity, Lily stared at the dead body of her son that had started moving again.

How was that possible? Was it the spell? But why? Why would it revive her son, of all people? Powerful as he was, he was no match for Voldemort, and besides, he was a Death Eater.

The hands lowered again and she believed she saw the gleam of eyes in the dark as he blinked, but it was very dark in the cell, and the room in general, and she couldn’t be sure.

“Harry?” her voice choked out, sounding strange and disbelieving in her own ears.

***

“Harry?” a female voice he didn’t know asked. She sounded like she was in the grip of some very strong emotion, a kind of desperate hope. How that fit together with a voice he didn’t know, he couldn’t begin to fathom. And she’d called him by his first name, too.

Carefully, he sat up, still not sure if his body was working properly after these strange events it had been subjected to. And where was his wand? Had it stayed behind like all his other weapons and clothes? He hoped not!

He turned his head to look in the direction of the voice while he felt around for the familiar piece of wood, unobtrusively, he hoped. After all, he didn’t know where he was, and whether the group of people he could see standing over there and staring at him were friend or foe.

He couldn’t see them very clearly since the only source of light in the room was a fire in the fire place which was in the back of the group of people, reducing them to flat black shadows to his unadjusted eyes.

***

Still not believing her eyes, Lily watched as her dead son sat up. The iron grip of James’ hand on her shoulder told her that he was having trouble believing what he was seeing, too. The others were staring, obviously as shocked by this development as her. Not even Dumbledore seemed to know what to say.

She couldn’t see Harry very clearly since the way they were standing, they blocked out most of the light, but she could see that he was turning his head to look at her once he had sat up.

***

Harry contemplated what to do now. The group of people staring at him didn’t seem to have any intention to attack him right now. On the other hand, he could make out the long, vertical shadows of bars between him and them. Since the side of the bars he was on was smaller then the side they were on, he figured he was the one inside a cell. That didn’t seem so friendly.

But despite the fact that he couldn’t make out their faces clearly, they seemed to be staring at him somewhat shocked. Perhaps his arrival was as unexpected to them as it was to him?

Well, asking couldn’t hurt, could it? Okay, yes, it could hurt, very much at that, but he figured he could risk it. Either he was already dead, so it didn’t matter, or he was not yet dead, which could be seen as a good sign, too.

“Uh… where am I?” he tried politely.


	2. Chapter 2

His voice was deep and smooth, and held a careful note to it. Its tone was very different from the one before he… died. Okay, she knew he HAD died- she’d seen that last breath for herself, she’d felt the absence of a pulse. And that had been some hours ago. And why did he have to ask where he was? Was he suffering from amnesia, or what? Before she could say anything, though, Ronald Weasley found his voice. 

“What do you mean, Potter, ‘where are you’? Being dead damaged your brain, or what?” The contempt was thick in his voice. Obviously, he wasn’t too pleased with this stunt.

***

It was someone tall from the left of the group that gave the comment, someone young and male, by the voice. And someone who didn’t like him very much. And what did that ‘being dead’ comment mean? And why did that voice sound so naggingly familiar?

And then it hit him. He’d heard this voice countless times, just not in this tone. Or rather not in this tone directed at him. At Draco, though, more than often enough. 

“Ron?!” he gasped, disbelieving.

***

Even in the dark, Lily could see the shocked expression on the face of her son.

“Ron?!” he asked, in a tone that was strangely emotional. Strangely reminiscent of the one of Lily when she said Harry’s name. 

She could nearly feel the young man to her right frowning. 

“I don’t recall offering you my first name, Potter. That’s ‘Auror Weasley’ to you,” he sneered. 

Lily could see Harry swinging his legs off the bed, so he was sitting on it, facing them, and squinting in the weak light for a better look. 

“Perhaps we could do with a bit more light for these certainly remarkable circumstances,” Dumbledore suggested gently and waved his wand. 

Immediately, the room was lit by a clear white light coming from a kind of ball hovering under the ceiling in the middle of the room. Everyone was squinting in the sudden brightness, their eyes taking a moment to adjust. 

When Lily looked at her son again, she saw that he had thrown up an arm to shield his face. 

His left arm. Something about that was wrong...

_There was no Mark on it._

The way he was holding his lower arm across his face, she should have been able to see at least a part of it. But the skin was white and unblemished.

***

Harry’s mind was still reeling when the light flashed up.

That had been Dumbledore’s voice, hadn’t it? And why was Ron calling him ‘Potter’ and talking to him like that? 

Slowly, he lowered his arm to squint at this mysterious group of people in front of his cell.

***

Lily was just about to say something about the missing Mark, when Harry lowered his arm and she looked at the face of a stranger.

Well, not exactly a stranger, he DID look a lot like her son, but there were some differences. Slight, but they were there. 

His hair, for one, was darker than she remembered it. It was as black and messy as James’ was. His face, too, was a bit different, slightly… harsher. There was a strong, determined line around his jaw that she’d never seen before. He was pale, as he always had been, but those few, cute freckles over his nose she’d adored so much were missing. All in all he did resemble James more than she remembered. Were it not for his eyes. 

The eyes… 

They were a mirror of her own, a clear, cat-like green, even more startling framed by those black lashes of his. 

Her son did not have her eyes. He had James’s, not hers. 

And the expression in them was different, too. Guarded, wary and careful. Not angry like she’d last seen them. 

But still, he did look like Harry. 

“You’re not Harry Potter!” Ronald burst out. Obviously, he’d noted the changes, too. Not astonishing, since those eyes were purely startling. They seemed almost to gleam. And he had PERSONALITY in a way that her own Harry had never had. The air seemed almost to crackle with his pure presence. 

Now, those eyes blinked - startled - at the redhead. One hand reached up to his forehead to rub a scar which Lily hadn’t noticed before. A wry smile appeared at one corner of his lips. “I assure you, I most certainly am Harry Potter, as much as it grieves me.” 

What did he mean by that? His earlier ramblings that he’d rather be pure-blooded again?

***

What was going on now? Harry asked himself. He was very confused, and frankly, he was tired. He wanted to know what was going on. And why wouldn’t he be Harry Potter? He had his goddamn scar, for crying out loud.

At least he’d found his wand between the folds of the thin covers. 

“Now,” he continued, sitting up straighter, “would someone be so kind as to tell me what is going on? Am I dead, or what? Is this Hell? Because if this is Heaven, you really should consider redecorating. And would you be so good as to let me out of this bloody cell and give me some decent clothes, please?”

***

While everyone else was still confusedly trying to understand what that… boy had just said and what it meant and what was going on anyway, Dumbledore seemed to have found his equilibrium again.

“Oh no, my boy,” he said gently and cheerfully, “as far as I know, this is neither Heaven nor Hell, but Hogwarts. We are a bit astonished by this turn of events, too, but if you wouldn’t mind, I would ask you if you could tell me what you remember?” 

The young man in the cell frowned slightly, his eyes narrowed distrustfully, but he seemed to come to the conclusion that telling them couldn’t hurt. 

“Hogwarts?” he asked as if the name was familiar to him. 

Lily had by now decided that he really wasn’t her Harry, but someone else, from somewhere else, and she had to admit she was curious about his tale. 

“Well…” the green-eyed boy, who called himself ‘Harry Potter’, started slowly, “I remember standing on the battlefield outside –” he nodded vaguely towards the walls “– and then there was this white light, and I KNOW I should have stayed the hell away from it –” he grinned a bit, a startlingly… young expression on his somehow jaded face “– but, well, I was curious –” he shrugged “– and so I took a step towards it. Then it swallowed me, and I thought I probably was dying, because it somehow… dragged me away, and there was even a dark tunnel with a light at the end, and that light grew brighter, and the next thing I know is waking up here. And my scar hurts,” he finished his tale, complaining and rubbing at his forehead with the heel of one hand. 

They all exchanged some questioning looks, even more confused than before. How came this boy had been standing on the battlefield outside? And why now, hours after the actual fight? And how came he apparently knew Hogwarts, and Ronald Weasley, when they’d never seen him? What _was_ going on? 

“Excuse me?” his voice sounded again from the cell and they turned to look at him. “Now I’ve told you _my_ story, so would you please tell me yours? I’d like to know what the hell is going on. And would you _please_ let me out of this cell?” He glared at them and Lily had to admit that it was quite intimidating, with his green eyes blazing out between stray strands of midnight black hair. 

“Well,” Dumbledore said mildly, “I’m afraid we are not really sure about what is going on, either…” 

The green gaze focused on him and the black eyebrows narrowed. 

“You ARE Albus Dumbledore, aren’t you?” the young man asked. 

“Oh, yes, I am, as far as I know,” Dumbledore answered pleasantly. 

“Well, if you are anything like the Albus Dumbledore _I_ know,” the boy continued, “then I am sure you might not know what is going on _exactly_ , but you can make a damn well-educated guess!” His voice dropped to a growl. “So don’t you dare play games with me, because it stopped working a _long_ time ago, and I. Don’t. Like. It.” 

The last was pressed out between clenched teeth and Lily was suddenly glad for the bars separating them. No, this guy definitively _wasn’t_ her son. He was a good deal more dangerous. And how could anyone dare to speak to Albus Dumbledore in that manner, anyway? 

According to the shocked silence around her, she wasn’t the only one thinking that. Even Dumbledore himself seemed slightly surprised. And there was a twinkle in his eyes that led Lily to the horrified thought that Dumbledore thought he’d found a worthy opponent, and that it _amused_ him. She would never understand that man. 

“Oh, I assure you, my boy, I wasn’t about to _play games_ with you,” Dumbledore continued in the same pleasant tone of voice. There was a disbelieving snort from the cell, and frankly, Lily had to agree. The day Dumbledore stopped playing games with the minds of everyone around him would be the day of the end of the world as they knew it. 

“As you are asking for my opinion, I think that your… _appearance_ here is linked to the ritual we were performing just a few minutes ago.”

“Ritual?” The black eyebrows shot up. “What kind of ritual?” 

“Well…” Dumbledore seemed unsure about how much to reveal, since that guy in the cell did name himself ‘Harry Potter’ after all, but apparently decided that he couldn’t get out of that conversation without at least part of the truth. “You see, we are having this kind of problem with this bad wizard, and that ritual was supposed to bring us a kind of… weapon against him.” 

The green eyes blinked slowly, once, twice, then the boy buried his head in his hands with a groan. 

“That bad wizard of yours wouldn’t be named ‘Voldemort’ by any chance, would he?” There was a slightly desperate note in his muffled voice. 

“Why, yes,” Dumbledore answered. “That’s what he calls himself.” 

The messy black mop of hair was lifted from the hands and he looked at the ceiling with the air of a man contemplating his fate. 

“Why me?” he announced to the ceiling, “Why does it _always_ have to be _me_?” Then he looked back at them. “Ah, well, I don’t suppose you could just go and kill him yourself? No? Didn’t think so,” he answered his own question while they were still a bit surprised by his lack of surprise. 

“Now, wait,” Ronald Weasley interjected angrily. “I still don’t understand what’s going on!” He turned to Dumbledore. “How could the ritual bring him here?” he demanded. “Harry Potter’s dead, I saw his body for myself! How come he’s alive again? And why does he look different? This doesn’t make sense!” 

“Well,” came the voice from the cell, sounding a bit amused, “the last time I saw _you_ , which was about ten minutes ago, you were quite dead, too.” 

The redhead wheeled around. “I’m not dead!” he exclaimed, obviously feeling offended by the comment. “Wish it all you like, Potter, you’re not getting rid of me that easily!” 

The amusement vanished and something like sadness crossed the strange and yet very familiar face of that Harry Potter. 

“I would never wish you dead, Ron, never,” he said quietly, but with a strong emotion just barely peeking through.

Ronald seemed to be a bit surprised by that, because he opened and closed his mouth a few times soundlessly before wheeling around to Dumbledore once more. “What IS going on?” he demanded vehemently. 

“I think,” a calm female voice said, and everyone turned to look at Hermione Granger, “we might be having a case of alternate realities here.” 

Ronald looked at the young witch with nearly as much dislike as he held for Harry. But before he could say anything, there came a delighted “ _Herm!_ ” from the direction of the cell. 

Lily could see the young woman stiffen and she doubted very much that the stern and dry Hermione Granger had ever been called anything as endearing as “Herm” in her entire life. 

Across the face of the young man in the cell was plastered a huge grin. “Trust you to come up with the solution! Care to tell me your reasoning?” There was a strange, easy familiarity in his demeanour towards her from which one could tell that they had been very close friends for a very long time. 

Apparently, Hermione felt it too, and felt uncomfortable with it, but she answered nonetheless. “Well, _you_ apparently know Hogwarts, and a lot of people here, yet we have never seen you. We know someone by the name of Harry Potter, but it very clearly isn’t you, even if the differences in appearance are slight. This Harry Potter died a few hours ago, and now you are here, obviously alive. I would think the spell brought you here and exchanged you with your counterpart of this world, though why it would bring you, I can’t say. Perhaps it was only possible because ‘you’ died here…” She seemed to get lost in thought. 

“That sounds kind of logical… At least it would explain why people I saw dying are very much alive here…” His gaze flicked to the young Weasley for a moment. “And it would explain different memories of events. And since we cleared that up now, can you let me out of this cell _now_?” He sounded exasperated. 

“Well…” Dumbledore seemed to hesitate. 

Lily could understand that, this Harry Potter over there seemed to be a lot more dangerous than the one they knew. 

“You are not letting him out!” Ronald Weasley exclaimed, horrified. “We still don’t know if we can trust him! He could be a Death Eater!” 

There was a startled “ _WHAT?!_ ” from the cell and the young man in it was sitting up bolt upright. 

“I am _not_ a Death Eater!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Have you lost your _mind_? I’m HARRY POTTER, for God’s sake!” He said the name like it should mean something beyond his name for them. 

“So you’re Harry-fucking-Potter, so what?” Ronald shot back. “Why do you always have to think you’re something special just because of your stupid name? The last time _I_ saw you, you had that ugly little tattoo decorating your left arm, so don’t give me shit about you not being a Death Eater!” 

The young man reeled back as if slapped in the face, his eyes widening and then narrowing again in barely-concealed fury. 

He stood up, his hands balled into fists at his sides and took a few slow, measured steps towards the bars. 

“Best friend or not,” he growled at the redhead, “you are going to listen to me now, and listen carefully: I would never - NEVER, I say - lower myself to licking the boots of some self-declared wanna-be-Dark Lord like Voldemort. I would much rather die than follow the madman who killed my parents, and my friends, and nearly everyone I ever cared about, and generally made my life hell, just because he’s holding a grudge at his father and having an inferiority complex from here to the moon!” His voice rose from a low, dangerous growl until he was nearly shouting, eyes blazing with barely contained emotion. 

Everyone stared at him wide-eyed, stunned by this sudden outburst. He glared at them all for another moment, then growled, “Now let me out, or _I_ ’ll let myself out.” 

“Ha! And how would you do that?” Ronald Weasley mocked, although the effect was slightly dampened by the tremor in his voice. Yet, his famous Gryffindor-Bravery didn’t fail him. But, as most of the time, Lily thought, it seemed to border on stupidity, since she didn’t think it a wise move to provoke that young man in the cell any further. 

Said young man looked at the redhead for another moment, than in an incredibly quick, fluid movement that nonetheless looked strangely casual, reached behind his back, drew a wand from somewhere, flicked it with the same casualness, announced calmly “ _Disintegro_!” and the metal bars crumbled to dust with a silent hiss. Totally unfazed, he stepped over the line of dust, brushed imaginary dust off his bare shoulder, and flicked his wand a second time without even looking. “ _Reparo_.” And the bars were there again as if nothing had happened. He folded his arms across his slim, but well-muscled chest and leaned back against the newly-restored bars. 

All of this couldn’t have taken more than the proverbial blink of the eye. A slight smirk played at one corner of his lips. 

“Now, if I _were_ a Death Eater and wanted to kill you, do you _really_ think you would still be standing there?” 

A soft clapping started and everybody turned to look at Albus Dumbledore, who took a step forward. 

“Bravo, my boy, that was certainly most convincing. What was this spell you used? ‘Disintegro’, I think you said. I have never heard of it.” He sounded very curious. 

The black eyebrows rose and his gaze darted to Hermione Granger. “Well, it’s a relatively new spell. We designed it originally as a reliable means for destroying Dementors, but it works on inanimate objects as well, if they aren’t too warm.” 

“But… but…” Ronald Weasley stuttered, “you can’t just invent new spells!” Now he was favoured with the raised eyebrows. 

“Of course you can. The old spells had to have been invented at some point, too, didn’t they? It’s just a whole lot of tricky work, so people don’t bother with it much anymore. But, well, as we had this little war going on, we desperately _needed_ new spells, and so our resident genius –” he nodded in Hermione’s direction, “– took the matter into her more-than-capable hands and made spell-creating her favourite pastime and best talent.” 

Hermione Granger looked as if this idea had never occurred to her and as if she was angry at herself for that. 

Dumbledore, in the meantime, was nodding excitedly. 

“Very well, very well. It seems to me we have a lot of comparing notes to do, so to speak. But, first of all, would you mind telling us about your… relationship with Tom Riddle, or Voldemort? Because, from what you said earlier, I gather it was rather a different one than that of our Harry Potter here, for the boy, sadly, really was a Death Eater.” 

“Oh.” The boy seemed a bit perplexed by that. “It really is strange, being asked that question…” He didn’t explain further, but shrugged. “Fine, I’ll tell you.

“Well, twenty years ago, Voldemort was steadily rising in power and pretty much taking over, and it didn’t look like anything would stop him any time soon. Three months after my first birthday, at Hallowe’en, he came to Godric’s Hollow, where my parents were hiding, and killed them. Then he cast the Killing Curse on me.” 

He paused for effect, and he had it. 

How could he be standing there, if someone had cast the Killing Curse on him? It was, once cast, unblockable, and a one-year-old toddler was hardly able to dodge the curse. The boy grinned slightly.

“Yes, I am still standing here, and yes, the curse DID hit me.” He gestured at his forehead with one hand. “There. But it didn’t kill me. Instead, it somehow backfired and drained Voldemort of most of his magic and power, leaving him as barely more than a shadow. He fled, and I got that lovely scar, a stupid nickname and a lot of fame. From that day on, I was kind of the Wizarding world’s mascot and their boy hero, every child knowing my name and my tale, the ‘Boy Who Lived’.” He grimaced. 

“Not that I wanted it then, nor do I want it now, since I was only a baby and really didn’t do anything. It was my mother who saved me.” A small, sad smile played on his lips. “The fame should be hers. But, well,” he sighed heavily, “can’t help it.” 

“How could Lily Potter save you?” Dumbledore asked curiously, and Lily asked herself the same. 

“By dying for me,” the young man answered quietly. “She didn’t need to die, I’ve been told he would have spared her, although I doubt it, but she stayed, begging Voldemort to kill her instead of me. So he killed her, but that love protected me, and when he tried to kill me afterwards, he failed.

“So, the Wizarding world was ecstatic, for the most part, most people believing Voldemort had been killed, even though he had just vanished, and all celebrating the end of the war, and me. 

“Ironically enough, I didn’t have a clue of any of that until my eleventh birthday. Albus Dumbledore –” he nodded at the old man “– thought it best to leave me with my only living relatives, my mother’s Muggle sister and her husband, the Dursleys.” 

Lily and James exchanged a look. He couldn’t be serious! Lily had met her sister’s husband just once, and it had been one time too many. The man was utterly repulsive, loud, fat and prejudiced in every way possible. And her sister wasn’t that nice a person, either. 

“Well,” the young man continued, “these people are the worst kind of Muggle you can come across, and they absolutely detest anything that isn’t nice, clean, ordinary and NORMAL. So, they were less than pleased to be landed with _me_. 

“But they took me in. Of course, they didn’t tell me a word about my parents, or me being a wizard, or anything like that, even though Dumbledore left them a letter explaining everything. But they thought that if they could just make me miserable enough, they could squash the magic out of me. So, the next ten years of my life weren’t very nice. 

“But then my eleventh birthday arrived and I was accepted at Hogwarts. After a bit of trouble, because the Dursleys tried to keep me from getting my letter, I was finally picked up by Hagrid and told everything and shown around.” Now he was smiling again. 

“But, well –” his shoulders drooped and he sighed “– it was too good to be true, and with me being Harry Potter and all, the peace didn’t last long, of course. 

“That very year, Voldemort tried to return to power, by means of the Philosopher’s Stone, which was hidden in Hogwarts, and, curious as we were, it fell upon my friends and me to stop him. We did, but that was just the beginning. 

“I had a run-in with him from then on nearly every year, in one form or another, and in my fourth year, he fully returned, and I saw my first school mate die. I escaped, again, and for some months, it was quiet. 

“By the end of fifth year, I had a run-in with him again, this time my godfather died, and that was when the war really started. After that, we haven’t had a single quiet minute.” He looked up then, and there was raw emotion in his eyes, even though his voice sounded perfectly calm, just telling the tale. 

“Today, this morning, we had the final battle, and I won. I killed him, not more than half an hour before your little ritual dragged me here. Of course, where I come from, most of my friends and acquaintances are dead by now. Wizarding Britain is in ruins, the population diminished to the point where we are threatened with extinction, and the scars of that war won’t heal until well in the future.” He sighed again. “I saved them, but so much too late. And today I lost even more friends…” His eyes strayed to the youngest Weasley son. Then he seemed to shake himself, like a dog coming out of the water, and lost his melancholic air. 

“So, now you know the tragic story of my life, and now you can perhaps understand why I’d _never_ consider being a Death Eater, and believe me, good old Tom DID ask. I declined and there never was any other option for me. Nor will there ever be.”

He looked at them, now a bit curious. 

“By the way, er… Voldemort?” 

They all blinked at him, not understanding. 

“Big bad evil Lord _Voldemort_?” He stressed the name as if he waited for some reaction. Obviously, he wasn’t getting it, because he frowned. 

“Doesn’t me saying that name bother you?” 

Dumbledore looked at him questioningly. “No. Why would it?” 

Now Harry looked perplexed. “Well, where I come from, everyone’s totally scared of saying his name. Apart from the innermost circle of the Order, no one calls him by name. It’s all ‘You-Know-Who’ and ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ or ‘the Dark Lord’ for the Death Eaters. You can get even Death Eater-children to flinch just by saying ‘Voldemort’.” He smiled slightly. 

In Lily’s head the wheels were turning rapidly. Had he just mentioned the Order in passing? Was he referring to the Order of the Phoenix? But no one knew of them! Perhaps this was different where he came from? Probably… And if he was the one who defeated Voldemort there, then he probably was a member, too. This was strange. She and James had never considered letting their son in on _that_ secret. Being a member of a secret society of Albus Dumbledore, of all people, wouldn’t be regarded exactly favourably by the rest of Wizarding Britain. But apparently quite a few differences existed between his world and theirs… 

“Well, seems like quite a few things are different between this world and the one I come from,” he said, as if echoing her thoughts. “How about filling me in?” 

“Well, I would think it necessary, all things considered,” Dumbledore replied pleasantly. “Where would you want me to start?” 

“How about twenty years ago? If I went and became a Death Eater here, something must have gone fundamentally differently here. I mean, why in all nine hells would I do that?”

Dumbledore sighed. “We have asked ourselves that question as well, my boy, without reaching a definite solution. But for what was different, I think it may be the fact that Voldemort never attacked you.”

The green eyes widened as the young man considered all the consequences of a change in something so fundamental to his life.

“What… what about my parents, then?” he asked, carefully. 

Dumbledore smiled. “Why, they are just standing over there.” And he motioned in their direction. 

The green eyes flicked in Lily’s and James’ direction for the first time since Dumbledore illuminated the room, and for a moment, he just stared at them. Then his eyes widened again and his face went ashen, while he grabbed one of the bars behind him for support with the hand not holding his wand. 

His gaze flicked back to Dumbledore. 

“Don’t…” he choked, then cleared his throat and tried again, “don’t drop such bombs on me just like that, please. I know you probably think this is hilarious as hell, but if you want me to kill old Voldie off for you, you wouldn’t want me to die of heart failure before I even get there, okay?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it would be such a shock for you,” Dumbledore replied remorsefully. He was favoured with a glare, albeit a weak one.

“Don’t give me shit. After the story I just told you, you should have realized that I never knew my parents, and don’t even _remember_ them. I was just a year old when they were killed, for God’s sake.” 

Yes, Lily thought, if you put it like that, it was quite logical that it would come as a huge shock for him to see them standing around here like that. But it was a bit difficult to see things from his perspective. 

The young man released his hold of the bar and straightened again. He frowned. 

“If he didn’t kill my parents, _why_ would I go and become a Death Eater then?” he asked, as if their being alive would be even more of a motivation not to become a follower of Voldemort than that man killing them. Which didn’t quite make sense, in Lily’s opinion. But she figured they could clear up all the details later. 

Dumbledore smiled a bit sadly. “As I have already said, I’m not entirely sure about our young Harry’s reasons for becoming a Death Eater. Personally, I think that it had a lot to do with his choice in company, and I must sadly admit that it would have been my responsibility to recognize the signs and act on them. But young Harry was a rather strong-willed young man.” 

That’s one way of putting it, Lily thought a bit sarcastically and a bit miserably. If Dumbledore was to blame, so were she and James. 

“I feared that by interfering I would alienate him even further. I still think that if I had interfered in his friendship with Mr. Malfoy, I just would have succeeded in driving them closer,” Dumbledore continued and sighed warily. 

“Malfoy?” Harry inquired, sounding astonished. “As in ‘Draco Malfoy’?” 

Dumbledore nodded and Harry snorted with laughter. 

“Draco Malfoy and I being friends?” He sounded as if that was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. 

“Oh yes,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “The two of you were practically inseparable, much to the dismay of your House mates and Professor Snape.” 

“Well, that I can imagine. Oh, which House was the me of this world in, then?” 

They all blinked. 

“Gryffindor, of course,” Dumbledore answered. 

A black eyebrow rose. “ ‘Of course’ ?” he inquired. “To me, that guy sounds pretty Slytherin.” He had a point there, Lily had to admit. Or perhaps not. Whatever else her son had been, he wasn’t a coward, and running blindly headlong into any kind of trouble seemed to have been his favourite pastime. 

Obviously, Dumbledore thought along the same lines. 

“Oh no, he wasn’t. Just because he joined the Dark Side doesn’t mean he was a Slytherin. Slytherin doesn’t equal evil, you know,” he said mildly. 

Harry Potter blinked at him for a moment, expression blank. Then he said, “I know that,” with the same blankness in his voice. “So, he was in Gryffindor and friends with Draco Malfoy, who, of course, was a Slytherin. Is a Slytherin,” he corrected himself. “Or is he dead?” 

“Draco Malfoy? As far as I know, he’s pretty much alive,” Dumbledore answered. 

A smirk appeared on one corner of Harry’s lips. 

“Oh, good,” he purred softly. 

Lily felt a bit nervous about that tone and asked herself what this Harry Potter intended to do to Draco Malfoy.

“What was your relationship to the Draco Malfoy of your world?” Dumbledore inquired. 

“We were rivals. The kind of beat-him-by-any-means, life-and-death-rivalry. I would call him my arch-nemesis, if I hadn’t already had a bigger one of those. Still, we were kind of famous for our mutual dislike at Hogwarts.” Then he grinned. “And I’ve got the hots for him.” 

There was a moment of silence as that last bit of information sank in. 

“You’re _gay_?” Ronald Weasley shrieked then, looking a bit horrified. 

Harry Potter just lifted his shoulders casually. “Oh yes.” 

“And you have the hots for _Malfoy_?!”

“Well, he’s bloody gorgeous!” Harry replied, now sounding a bit defensive. 

“He’s an arrogant asshole!” 

Lily found it a bit strange to hear Ronald Weasley say that to her son (even if it wasn’t _really_ her son), since she recalled very clearly that that was what he had said about Harry, too. 

This Harry, though, just shrugged. “Yes, he is, I know. If he forgets to be daddy’s good little Death-Eater-in-training, though, he can be quite nice. Or at least the one _I_ knew could.” 

“What happened to him? The Draco Malfoy you knew, I mean?” Ronald Weasley inquired curiously. 

Some brief, unreadable emotion flickered over Harry’s face. “He died,” he replied shortly. 

“Oh.” Ronald seemed a bit taken aback for a moment, than his curiosity won over once more. “How?” 

Harry’s face was unreadable. “Your fiancée shot a hole through his heart. Or rather, his chest, since there was nothing of his heart left.”

“Oh.” Now the young redhead looked slightly green around the nose, which really didn’t go well with his hair colour. Then what Harry had just said registered fully. 

“My fiancée? The me in your world has a fiancée?” he squeaked. 

“ _Had_ a fiancée,” Harry corrected. “The you where I come from is dead. Draco Malfoy avadad you. Your fiancée saw you fall and…” he shrugged a bit, “killed him.” 

“ ‘Avadad’ ? Is that a word?” Ronald sounded sceptical. 

“Er… It is where I come from… Come to think of it, we just started using it at some point… Don’t know who brought it up first.” 

“I see…” He seemed reluctant, but then asked, “Uh… who _was_ my fiancée in your world?” 

A short grin twitched at the edges of Harry’s lips. “Why, Hermione, of course.”

Everyone looked at Hermione Granger, who looked somewhat horrified first at Harry, then to Ronald Weasley, who didn’t look any less horrified. Obviously, the two didn’t particularly like the thought of being betrothed. 

“And… and she killed Draco Malfoy?” Ronald asked then incredulously. 

Harry nodded. “Oh yeah, she did. Could have told him he was no match for her…” He sighed heavily. 

Suddenly Lily realized what the story he just told them must mean for him: His best friend had been killed by the person he… had a crush on or whatever, and then another good friend of his, judging by his behaviour, had killed his crush. That was kind of… tragic. She wondered how long ago it had been. 

“Hermione Granger killed Draco Malfoy?” Ronald still seemed stuck on that fact. 

Lily had to admit that it was kind of ironic, and unexpected, too. Somehow, Hermione Granger didn’t strike her as the violent type. 

“How?” The redhead sneaked a cautious glance in her direction. 

She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t look at me like that! That girl wasn’t me, and I’m not going to go crazy on you and kill everyone in sight!” 

There was a chuckle from Harry’s direction, while Lily failed to see the humour. “Well, I don’t know what kind of curse she used, since I didn’t have time to ask her, thanks to your little ritual and all, but I’m not sure I even _want_ to know. Probably one of her experimental things.”

Oh, so it had been today? Probably not so long ago? Yes, he had mentioned that Ronald Weasley died in that battle today earlier, hadn’t he? Lily thought it astonishing how… _composed_ he seemed for someone who had just faced the Dark Lord who killed his parents and killed him, lost his friend and a potential lover in that battle and got dragged to a different world where all those people were still alive but different, and all that in the course of one day… 

“Perhaps we should all sit down, since this is probably going to take some more time?” Dumbledore suggested in a friendly tone. 

They all agreed and so the group sat down at the table. 

Harry Potter looked at his wand a bit sceptically, as if not sure what to do with it, then he settled for putting it on the table in front of him- close enough to grab it quickly and out of reach of any of them, Lily noted. 

When they were all settled, Dumbledore continued his narrative of Voldemort’s activities over the last twenty years, how he had placed Death Eaters in many important positions and carefully manipulated the general opinion, combined with a few violent outbursts against opponents of his little anti-Muggle-campaign, of which he could never be proven to be guilty. Then he told the young man about the sudden start of all-out war some months earlier and how he seemed to be unstoppable. 

By the end of his speech, Harry Potter was sitting, his arms folded across his chest and his eyebrows narrowed in thought. 

“It seems he took things here much more slowly and inconspicuously than in my world. Much more effectively, too. In my world, the all-out war started even before my birth, which is why it was such a sensation when he suddenly just vanished from one day to the next.” He frowned a bit more, then looked at Dumbledore. “What about Sybill Trelawney?” 

“Sybill Trelawney?” Dumbledore asked, perplexed. “Who’s that?” 

The frown deepened. “You mean, you don’t know her?” 

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “The name seems to ring a bell, but I can’t place it…” 

“I think she applied to you for the post of Divination teacher a good twenty years ago.” 

“What…? Why, yes, now I remember! How do you know? Is it relevant?” Dumbledore seemed clearly puzzled. 

Harry looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. Since you couldn’t place her immediately… that would explain some things… Can you recall the meeting?” 

“Not very clearly.” Dumbledore admitted. “It has been twenty years, after all. I only met her out of politeness, since she was the descendant of a great Seer, I think, but she didn’t seem to have inherited any trace of the gift and so I cancelled the subject completely.” 

“Hmm…” Harry frowned again. “That would explain why he didn’t attack me…” 

That didn’t make much sense to Lily, but she thought she had heard that name somewhere, too… 

“Trelawney?” James said slowly. “Wasn’t that that woman who went missing as one of the first probable victims of Voldemort? Shortly before the Longbottom case? I think I recall reading about it in the _Prophet_ … how she was the last of the line of some of the most talented Seers in British history…” 

“Yes!” Lily exclaimed. “That’s why that name sounds so familiar! It was quite a sensation, I think they found her dead a week later, but by then no one paid much attention to it because of the Longbottom case.” 

“He killed her?” Harry exclaimed. 

Lily looked at him and could nearly see the wheels turning in his head. 

“What is this about the Longbottoms? What about Neville?” 

Lily frowned. “Neville?”

“That was their little son, wasn’t it?” Dumbledore said sadly. 

“He’s dead?” Harry asked. 

Dumbledore nodded. “You see, about twenty years ago, a group of Muggles stormed the Longbottoms’ house and killed both of them and their little son. It caused a huge uproar, of course, and fuelled Voldemort’s anti-Muggle propaganda greatly. And there was the question of punishment, of course. Were they subject to Muggle or to wizard law? But that never got cleared up, because the whole group turned up dead only days later. That was when the speculations started that it could have been an attack organized by Voldemort, because he was the only one receiving any advantage from it. And if he’d arranged the attack, he wouldn’t want the Muggles questioned under Veritaserum, of course, which the Ministry was close to doing. It never got cleared up what the real story behind that was.” 

Harry’s eyes were wide. Then he leaned back in his chair.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed out, softly. “That was damn fucking brilliant…”

“Er… would you mind telling us the relevance of this story?” Dumbledore seemed as perplexed as the rest of them, which was somewhat of a first time. 

“Well, it really raises the question _why_ he didn’t attack me, but perhaps you can help me in clearing that up. From what I gather you never heard the prophecy?” Harry looked questioningly at Dumbledore. 

“Prophecy?” 

Harry nodded. “Yes. In my world, as you told me, you were just about to leave that job interview, coming to the same conclusion, that she didn’t have the talent, when she started speaking, but not in her usual misty voice. She made a prophecy then, one of the two true prophecies she ever made, as far as I know.” 

He closed his eyes, obviously concentrating. 

“That prophecy went like this: ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches … born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives …’ ” 

He opened his eyes again. 

“That was her prophecy, and in my world, one of Voldemort’s followers overheard the first part of the prophecy. Well, the prophecy applied to two children, both born ‘as the seventh month dies’: Neville Longbottom, and me. Since he didn’t know about the part of the ‘mark him as his equal’ –” he gestured at his scar “– he went and tried to kill me, but in the process selected me as his opponent and transferred some of his powers to me. 

“It seems like here, you didn’t hear the prophecy at all –” he nodded at Dumbledore “– but he knew its full content and managed to override it by sending those Muggles to kill Neville.  
But it still doesn’t explain why he didn’t try to kill _me_ …” He frowned. 

“Because you weren’t born ‘as the seventh month dies’,” Lily answered quietly. 

Astonished green eyes met hers. “I wasn’t?” 

She shook her head. 

“No. Your birth was difficult, much more difficult than we had expected. We had a midwife at home, and I went into labour sometime in the afternoon. But somehow my pelvic structure seems not to be meant for giving birth to children, and finally, the midwife decided that she was out of her depth and that they needed to get me to St Mungo’s. She cast a Labour-Suppressing Charm on me, and with a bit of difficulty, we got to St Mungo’s. 

“You were born there, in the early hours of August the first.” She smiled sadly in memory of that night, and how she had finally held her baby in her arms… Her baby, who was dead now. The child she had failed. 

“Oh. That would explain it. My birthday is July 31st, as far as I know…” 

“Wait!” James exclaimed. “That would mean you were in the same year as Ronald and Hermione here? Same year as Draco Malfoy?” 

Harry looked at him, astonished. “Of course we were in the same year. Why?” 

James looked at Lily, and they shared a glance of mutual understanding. They both remembered their son’s eleventh birthday only too well… 

“Well, you see, July 31st is the deadline for the Hogwarts school year. Every child that is eleven by then goes, others have to wait for the next year. Our son wasn’t exactly pleased to miss that deadline by one day…” That, Lily thought wryly, was one way of putting it.

“Oh.” He shuddered visibly. “Then thank every god I know that I was born July 31st… Even if it got me on top of old Tom’s hit list.” 

“Oh? Why would that be?” Lily asked, somehow curious about this stranger, who was so much like her son in some ways, yet so completely different in others. He looked at her with raised eyebrows and a slightly pained expression. 

“One year more with the Dursleys? No thank you.” He grimaced with disgust. Obviously, he hadn’t been exactly happy with her sister and her family, which rather confirmed Lily’s suspicions. “Was it very horrible?” 

Again he looked at her with those green eyes that were so startling, because it was just like seeing her own eyes in another face. 

“Well…” he said, shrugging uncomfortably, “let’s just say I prefer not to think about it. I don’t have to ever go back there, and that’s that.

“Now, back to business. If I understand you correctly, the war here has just begun…” 

He turned back to Dumbledore and the others and started asking questions about strategies, casualties and the general state of affairs.


	3. Chapter 3

Several hours later, Harry was lying in a bed in a small set of rooms somewhere in Hogwarts. It didn’t look much different from the ones he’d lived in for the past four or five years, especially in the dark.

 _What a day_ , he sighed mentally. First Draco showed up in his rooms, and they’d spent some of the most beautiful and emotionally painful hours he’d ever experienced in Draco's company, then they went out at dawn to break the siege around Hogwarts, finally, the last obstacle between Voldemort and the rest of the world, and had that big, chaotic show-down… the concentrated forces of the Light and the Dark colliding in one big, bleeding, screaming mass, curses flying everywhere, and the only thought in his head: Had to get to Voldemort and kill him once and for all.

And he had…

Just to land here, where that bastard was still alive and by all appearances in an even better position. But on the other hand, most of his friends were still alive here, too. And Draco…

Lying in the dark and staring at the ceiling of his four-poster bed, Harry vowed not to make the same mistakes again.

This time around, he would take what he could get as long as he could. This time, he wouldn’t let that stupid brat get himself killed. This time, he would stop Voldemort in time to save most of his friends. After all, he’d done it once. He could do it twice.

***

The next day he spent mostly shopping.

Since all his clothes and weapons had remained behind, he had to replace them.

Clothes were not that hard since he mostly wore black jeans and dark t-shirts, which could easily be found in Muggle-London.

Since he was going to get rid of Voldemort for them, he’d reached an agreement with Dumbledore that he’d pay for all his expenses and give him free housing in Hogwarts. After all, he didn’t seem to have any money here, or if he did, he didn’t know how to get to it.

After he had several sets of interchangeable trousers and shirts, with one or two less casual ones in between, he went to get his weapons back.

The knives were kind of easy, and the sheaths for them, too. Harry wasn’t very tall, but the smallest standard size still fitted comfortably around his forearms and calves. The gun would have been more difficult if he hadn’t had so much experience in faking licences. Hurrah for magic that made your life so much less complicated.

Having procured the Muggle part of his arsenal, he moved on to Diagon Alley. Even though Voldemort was waging outright war, it seemed like he hadn’t damaged business that much yet.

There he spent the rest of a surprisingly relaxed and entertaining afternoon buying all the things he needed. It felt strange, after so many years of war, to be shopping normally and not having to go through loads of contacts to get even the most basic potions ingredients.

He got his vials and most of the potions stuff; the more exotic items would be sent to him by special mail as soon as they arrived.

The wand holster he required would have to be custom-made and would be sent to Hogwarts for him, too. He procured a fairly standard cloak at Madam Malkin’s because the spells that would turn it into a full battle cloak would have to be cast by himself. That would be his occupation for the evening.

Then he was standing in the street, trying to think of anything he’d forgotten, when his eyes fell on the display in the broom shop and a big grin spread over his face.

He needed a broom.

A good two hours later, he stepped out again, a long bundle over his shoulder. Broom development had gone slightly differently here (that is to say, it had gone at all; where he came from, such fancy things as brooms had just not been available), so he’d spent the past two hours discussing models with the shop owner, who’d been delighted at having a customer who knew his stuff.

So now he was the proud owner of a new top-of-the-line “Silverflash 03”, a line that had replaced the old Firebolts in regards to speed and sensitivity.

It was very fast, had excellent acceleration and was very manoeuvrable, but not built for heavy weights, which suited Harry just fine; after all, he didn’t intend on using it to carry people around or anything like that. The shop owner had been a bit sceptical at selling it to him but Harry had assured him that he had the skill required for flying such a finely-tuned broom.

Tired, laden with his purchases (thank the gods for shrinking- and weight-reducing charms…), but in a better mood than he had been in a long time, he arrived back at Hogwarts.

He hadn’t even noticed how much he’d missed the simple pleasure of being able to walk around and go shopping freely without being killed on the spot in the last few years.

***

He stashed everything in his room, changed out of the robe he’d borrowed from the school supplies and gratefully dressed in his usual manner again.

While he laced up his newly purchased black dragon-hide boots, he marvelled at how much more he felt like himself again just by wearing his own clothes again.

Putting on the various knife sheaths, he studied himself in the mirror critically.

Yes, now he looked like his usual self again: black jeans, the only real difference being their new appearance; close-fitting black t-shirt; boots riding up to his calves with the knife handles sticking out on top and the stark black contrast of the knife sheath against the pale skin of his right forearm.

He grabbed his (new) black belt and slid it around his hips after attaching the gun holster to it.  
Now all that was missing for him to feel completely comfortable again was the wand sheath at his left forearm, the belt holding his little potions vials diagonally across his chest, and the weigh of his sword on his back. But well, those items had to be custom-made, and so he had to wait a few days for them to arrive at Hogwarts.

Lovingly, he traced his fingers along the handle of his new sword. It was a Katana, roughly three feet long, perfectly balanced and with a clear, deadly gleam along the blade. He’d seen it in the shop where he’d bought the knives, and it had been love at first sight.

After testing its balance and compatibility with his body and fighting style, and finding both as if made personally for him, he’d bought it on the spot from the shop owner, who’d been more than a bit awed by his short performance in handling the thing.

It had been expensive, but Harry was sure it was well worth the money. With this beauty, he’d probably not even miss his old one. Oh, how he longed to test it out in a little fight…

Well, he had to see if he could locate the Severus Snape of this world, and hopefully get him to assist with the potion-brewing, and perhaps he could persuade him to have a little training fight with him.

He grinned slightly as he thought how much he’d actually missed that greasy git over the last three years.

Tucking his wand under his belt after he’d locked his door, he set out to find someone who could tell him where said greasy git could be found. And a bite of dinner wouldn’t hurt, either.

So he set out in the direction of the Great Hall.

***

They were all having dinner at a single table in the Great Hall when the door opened and their “guest” strolled in, obviously back from his shopping tour.

There was a moment of silence as everyone took in his appearance, surprised by what they saw. Somehow, they all seemed to have instinctively supposed he’d dress like the Harry Potter they knew. He did not.

No elaborate robes, gleaming with animated silver or gold stitching; in fact, apart from his boots, no Wizarding clothes whatsoever. His outfit seemed purely Muggle, with his wand casually tucked under his belt almost looking out of place.

Her son, Lily thought distractedly, wouldn’t have been caught dead in that style of clothing.

Muggle-style dressing, as far as she knew, was hopelessly out in the Wizarding world for the time being, and even Muggle-borns like Hermione Granger or herself were careful to dress according to Wizarding culture.

It had been some time, she wondered, since she’d seen someone in jeans and a t-shirt. He looked almost… provocative, strolling into the Hall like that, obviously totally oblivious to how strange he looked against the backdrop of the ancient magical castle.

As he neared the table and started to clamber over the bench to sit down and have something to eat with the ease of someone who felt perfectly at home, he seemed to notice their silence and the stares he was getting.

“Er… is something wrong?” he asked, perplexed.

“Not at all, not at all, my boy.” Dumbledore beamed at him (the man, Lily thought, really seemed to be totally gone on this Harry Potter).

“Your way of dressing is just unusual these days in these halls, unfortunately.”

Sitting down, the young man looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with the way I dress?” he asked, obviously confused.

Dumbledore continued beaming. “Oh, nothing, absolutely nothing. You might even set a new trend.” His eyes sparkled.

“You’re wearing Muggle clothes,” Ronald Weasley exclaimed, sounding astonished.

Lily could see how the green eyes looked first at the redhead, then continued to skim the rest of the table and their respective outfits while his brows furrowed in dawning comprehension. After a moment of taking in the total absence of a single item of Muggle clothing, however, he shrugged.

“Well, robes are terrible for fighting, so I’m rather fond of the Muggle style of clothing. Leaves me loads more freedom for movement. Besides, we didn’t have much time for fashion in the war.” He grabbed the next dish of food in front of him and started heaping food on his plate.

Then he started to dig in with the healthy appetite of a young man.

Noticing Lily looking, he swallowed and asked, eyebrows raised, “What?”

She shook her head and suppressed a small smile. “Nothing. It’s just that my son was rather picky with food and tended to push it around his plate more than eating it.”

“Oh.” He shrugged again. “Eat what you can, while you can, is all I have to say to that topic.”

And with that he continued wolfing down astonishing amounts of food with equally astonishing speed. It was not so much that he had bad table manners or anything, more that he ate with a thorough, speedy economy that made the food disappear rapidly.

“That’s a good saying if I ever heard one,” Ronald Weasley agreed and went back to his own plate, with rather less grace and thoroughness.

Hermione Granger looked at him with a disgusted expression.

Harry, looking up, caught it and Lily could see him suppressing an amused chuckle.

“Well,” he brought their attention back to him after his worst hunger seemed to be sated and he was nipping at a goblet full of what appeared to be pumpkin juice (her son had hated pumpkin juice, Lily remembered), “I’ve got a question. Is Severus Snape a professor here?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, he is. Why do you ask?”

“Is he as much of a potions genius here as the one I knew?”

Dumbledore chuckled silently. “I don’t know the Severus Snape you… knew, you said? You have to tell us what happened to him,” he continued at Harry’s nod, “but our Severus is pretty good with potions, yes.”

“Oh, good.” Harry smiled. “I need a few potions brewed I could need his help with. I can do them myself quite well, but he’s just better at it. As to what happened to the one I knew, he’s dead. Jumped off one of the towers here. The second of the western ones, I think, it was.”

A brief uncomfortable silence settled over the table.

“Snape doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type,” James offered then.

Harry smiled bitterly. “Oh, he wasn’t. It was, after all, an act to spite the world in general, and Voldemort in particular, to show that he still had control over his life. He jumped, of his own free will, after Voldemort had returned him to us after finding out he was a spy for the Order and having his Dementors suck his soul out. He wasn’t much more than a living, breathing corpse when we got him back, but there was enough of him left to make the decision to climb up there and end it. Tough bastard.”

Harry emptied his goblet in one long swallow, as if saluting the man who’d spited the Dark Lord even without a soul.

There was a moment of silence while Harry looked straight ahead, lost in reminiscence, then he shook himself out of it.

“So, I expect I’ll find your version of that poison-brewing, oversized bat in the dungeons?”

Most people at the table seemed to have to fight laughing at that description, though Lily wondered about the undercurrent of affection under the disrespectful name calling. Between her son and the House of Slytherin there had been no love lost even if he was best friends with Snape’s favourite pupil.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “That is indeed where you’ll find him. I contacted him this noon about your… arrival, so I think you can go down there without being in danger of being hexed or anything else.”

“So, is he spying for you here, too?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, he is.”

Harry nodded, put down his goblet and started to stand. “Well, then I’m off looking for him.” He nodded at all of them in general, then turned around to walk briskly out of the hall again.

He really looked out of place in his Muggle clothes. And Lily wondered how she had gotten so used to men in robes that the sight of his behind and legs so clearly visible seemed somehow… improper to her.

***

Harry made a quick trip back to his rooms to pick up everything he would need, in case Snape wanted to start right away, and then was on his way to the dungeons.

He was pleased that the atmosphere at the dinner table had seemed to be slightly more relaxed than the day before, and even more pleased to hear that at least Snape seemed to be completely himself.

With a big grin plastered across his face, Harry sauntered down the steps towards the dungeons.

Hell, had he missed that annoying bastard.

He reached the dungeons, and everything down there looked just like he remembered it.

Striding past the door of the potions classroom he hoped that Snape’s quarters were where he remembered them being. He would look slightly foolish talking to a stone wall that didn’t hide the secret door.

He stopped in front of the secret door, (or at least he hoped he did), quickly checked right and left that the corridor was empty, just in case he was wrong, and knocked on the stone.

“Professor Snape? Are you there?”

No answer. He waited a moment, then knocked again. “Professor?”

Suddenly the space of wall he was knocking on vanished, at the same time losing the illusion and transforming back into an ordinary wooden door, and an angry looking Professor Snape stuck his head out. “Who in Salazar’s name…?” He glared down at Harry who just had to smile broadly at the familiar sight. Snape’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I assume you are that alternate version of the Potter-brat?”

Harry just couldn’t get the smile off his face although he knew that Snape wouldn’t trust that expression and would probably think he was plotting something against him.

He nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”

Snape’s expression turned even more sour.

“And you don’t have to go and kick Dumbledore’s arse for giving me the location of your rooms; he didn’t,” Harry continued happily.

“Who did, then, as you evidently know where they are?” Snape asked, still suspicious.

“You did.” Harry answered truthfully. “I was just betting on you living in the same quarters as you did where I come from.”

One black eyebrow rose. “And if I hadn’t?”

“Well,” Harry grinned, “then I would have seemed like an idiot for talking to a stone wall, and would just have had to hope that no one saw it.”

Snape snorted disparagingly but Harry could see the amusement glinting in the black eyes. “So, what do you want?”

 _Friendly as always_ , Harry thought ironically and couldn’t stop his grin from widening even further. “I wanted to ask you for help with a few potions I need.”

“And why are you grinning like a maniac?”

Harry nearly laughed and shook his head slightly. “I’m just glad to see you again.”

Now Snape’s eyebrows rose in pure disbelief. “You, Mister Potter, obviously don’t know me. Or at least a very different version of myself.”

At that, Harry laughed out loud.

“I assure you, Professor, it’s really nice to finally meet someone who’s almost _exactly_ like I remember them.” He glanced at Snape’s clothes. “Down to the robe you wear.”

“Then why would you be glad to see me?”

“Well--” Harry shrugged. “I missed you.” _You stupid, greasy, annoying bastard_ , he added in his mind, but not out loud. To the Snape he’d known he’d have said that, but he didn’t know how this one would take it.

“So?” Obviously, Snape didn’t quite know how to deal with someone telling him they’d missed him, so he changed the topic. “And what potions would that be?”

Harry rattled off the names of some very tricky, very harmful and very-nearly-illegal potions. He didn’t want to get into trouble, so he’d confined himself grudgingly only to legal potions when he’d picked out his arsenal all those years ago, and in consequence some of the things he wanted were pretty exotic. In fact, the only reason that some of the things he’d just named weren’t banned was that nearly no one remembered their existence anymore.

Snape’s eyebrows rose up very far. “And what would you need _those_ for, if I may ask?”

“I intend to carry them around and throw them at my enemies in a fight,” Harry answered truthfully.

Snape just looked at him for a moment, probably trying to figure out if he was joking or not. “You are aware that some of them will result in the rather gruesome death of those enemies?”

Harry nodded. “That’s what they’re for. Well, not the ‘gruesome’ part in most cases, but unfortunately everything that results in a quick, clean death by contact or breathing in is strictly illegal. So--” He shrugged. “I had to find other ways. You don’t expect me to reduce myself to Stunners and Disarming Spells in a fight with a pack of bloodthirsty Death Eaters when all around me Killing Curses and uglier stuff is flying, do you? If I take my opponents down, I need them to stay down and not hop back up if someone throws a Finite their way,” Harry stated dryly.

“I see…” Snape said slowly. “Do you already have everything you are going to need?”

“Most of it. Some things needed special order and will arrive here by owl post as soon as they can get it.”

Snape nodded. “All right. Come in. I guess the sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

Happily, Harry followed him through his sitting room in his private little potions lab, noting with satisfaction how little difference there was between this reality and what his memories were telling him.

Of course, the arrangement was a bit different as were the pieces of furniture themselves, but the atmosphere in general was the same: dimly lit, smelling of old books and dried herbs and feeling like home to a degree that Harry hadn’t felt in a long time.

In the little lab, Harry deposited his ingredients on the working table and after a short conversation to divide the work (and from which Snape could determine that Harry actually knew what he was doing), they set to work quietly.

***

Some hours of nearly silent working later, they finally finished up and Harry started pouring the potions into his little crystal vials. Snape watched him interestedly. They had made most of the stuff Harry needed, only the three most difficult remaining for when he would get the last of the ingredients. All of the potions had exactly the right colour and consistency, perfect to a degree Harry alone never managed, no matter how much he concentrated, no matter how carefully he worked.

“Don’t you think it will be a bit dangerous for you to carry these around in vials as breakable as those?” Snape inquired, motioning towards the delicate, light blue vial in Harry’s hand.

The quiet hours of potion making had relaxed him, and he was in a much more friendly mood than before. Harry shook his head distractedly. “They’ve got Unbreakable Charms on them.” He didn’t need to see Snape to know his eyebrows were rising.

“Won’t the charms interfere with the potions? Those are very sensitive concoctions.”

“No. There are modifications in the formulas to avoid exactly that. And you can trust those modifications; you made them yourself.” Here Harry tossed him a quick grin.

“If you say so…”

After Harry had filled the potions into their respective containers, some for storage and some to carry around with him, they cleaned up everything and Harry followed Snape back into his living quarters.

Harry thanked him for his help and they agreed to make the last potions as soon as Harry got the ingredients delivered. Before he headed back to his own rooms, though, Harry turned once more.

“Professor?”

“Yes?” Snape was already halfway back to his lab.

“I was wondering… I bought this nice new sword today, and I thought maybe you would like a little training fight with me sometime?”

Snape looked at him, astonishment clear in his face. “You know how to fence?”

Harry shrugged. “Why, yes.” After all, it was Snape who taught him, he thought to himself. And he refused to think about how their mock duels normally used to end…

“Well, I haven’t had a nice sword fight for years, so if you are any good with that sword of yours, I wouldn’t mind a duel or two.”

Harry nodded, delighted. “How about tomorrow evening?”

Snape gave a curt nod. “Agreed. I think the Great Hall will provide sufficient space for us.”

At the thought of duelling Snape in the Great Hall, Harry just had to grin. In his world, they’d always used the Room of Requirement. But perhaps that special room wasn’t as widely known here? Well, if that was the case, Harry decided to keep people ignorant. One never knew when a secret room could come in handy. “Fine with me. After dinner?”

Snape gave one final nod and left for his lab while Harry let himself out and started towards his rooms.

Preparing his cloak would have to wait until tomorrow; he was too tired now.

***

The next day went by quickly. Harry summoned a house-elf and had breakfast in his room, then he set to work on his cloak.

The next few hours he spent concentrating, weaving spell after spell into the very material itself. It was a long, tedious business that nonetheless required his full attention.

Finished, his cloak would protect him from water, fire, heat and cold to a certain extent as well as most spells. Furthermore, worn inside out (not that the cloak would have a specific in- or outside when he was finished) it would work as an invisibility cloak. This was one of the harder bits of magic to weave into the piece of clothing. Especially since he required it being an invisibility cloak only when worn with the inside out and not the other way around, and since he didn’t want it to _show_ it could work as one, he also had to conceal the tell-tale silver shimmer.

By the time he had finished with his cloak, he had missed lunch by several hours, but it was still too early for dinner. He decided to go down to the Great Hall anyway and look if someone was perhaps having tea down there.

Grateful for another bit of the outfit he was used to, he threw the cloak around his shoulders. He had, he realised now, felt strangely exposed and vulnerable without it. Well, perhaps that wasn’t so strange, since his battle cloak was his last defensive barrier against the world and had saved his life countless times.

***

Lily, James and Dumbledore were having tea in the Great Hall when their guest finally showed up for the first time that day. They had just been speculating whether they should be worried by his absence from breakfast and lunch and if they should start searching the dungeons for him. After all, the last thing they knew was that he was going to search for Professor Snape. And James claimed that you could never be sure what that man was up to.

But Harry’s arrival stopped their half-joking discussion.

He had changed again. Now he wore a wizard’s cloak over his Muggle attire, which, in Lily’s opinion, looked just utterly strange. She couldn’t remember seeing anyone mixing up styles like that for over a decade. Though, now that she thought about it, when she had gone to school, no one but the extremely traditional pure-bloods had cared much about how someone dressed.

Harry greeted them quite cheerfully.

“Oh, great, cake, I’m starving!” he exclaimed, sounding suddenly years younger, and began filling the plate which appeared as soon as he sat down.

“Well,” Albus observed mildly, “you seem to have missed breakfast and lunch.”

“I had breakfast in my rooms,” Harry answered between bites, “but I did miss lunch.” He gestured with his chin. “Had to finish the incantations on the cloak and couldn’t take a break.”

Lily looked at the heavy black material again. Indeed, there seemed to be a strange sparkling silvery shimmer to it that spoke of magic, though it looked pretty standard otherwise.

“What kind of incantations?” James asked, a bit carefully but curious.

He and Lily still felt strange around this young man. After all, he _did_ look a lot like their son, and in a way he was, yet on the other hand he was a complete stranger. And that it sometimes was like looking at a younger mirror image of themselves didn’t exactly help either.

“Oh, various kinds of spells,” the young man answered after he had looked up from his plate and swallowed. “The standard ones to make it impervious to rain and such as well as a lot of special ones so it will serve as protection from most spells and hexes, extreme temperatures and fire and a bit more. All in all, I made a full battle cloak out of it.” He rolled his shoulders a bit. “And it’s a good feeling to have it back, too. I didn’t even realize how unprotected I felt without it,” he finished, almost to himself.

“Um… so that’s your normal style of clothing?” Lily asked a bit hesitantly.

The green gaze, so much like hers, turned on her. “Yes, why?”

She shrugged. “It’s just so different from what… our son used to wear.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose a bit. “It is?”

She nodded. “Yes. I think he wouldn’t have been seen dead in anything even remotely Muggle.”

“Hm…” Harry said and seemed to be thinking for a moment. “Well,” he continued then, suppressing a grin, “since I seem to have landed in his clothes, I think it likely that he landed in my clothes. Which would be nearly identical to what I’m wearing right now.” The grin spread on his face. “And since they are probably giving him as big a state funeral as they can, they probably will bury him in battle outfit and weapons. So, I’m afraid he probably will be seen in exactly this kind of clothes by a _lot_ of people…”

Yes, Lily had to admit, he had a point there… A new wave of sadness filled her as she realized that she wouldn’t even be able to go to her own son’s funeral.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologized from her left. All traces of humour were gone from his face and the compassion and pain she saw in his eyes made them seem ancient. “That was rather tactless of me, I apologize.”

She was a bit astonished by that. Though she knew, rationally, that he was a nearly complete stranger, on a subconscious level she still expected him to act like her son- which he failed to do almost every time. Like now, for example. It was unlikely, she had to admit, that her son would have noticed his tactlessness, and even if he had, it was even more unlikely that he would actually have apologized for it. Her education of her son really seemed to have sucked, she concluded.

She smiled at the now solemn young man and shook her head slightly. “It’s okay. After all, it _is_ rather ironic.”

With that, they left serious topics by unspoken agreement and made light conversation for the rest of the time.

“Oh, by the way,” Albus said suddenly, “these came for you during breakfast.” He held several bundles wrapped in brown paper out to Harry.

He took them, looked them over and a pleased smile spread over his face.

This smile, Lily noted, was eerily similar to that of her son.

“Thanks! Seems like I will be back to my normal self in only a few days…” With that he excused himself and retreated, probably back to his rooms to unpack his packages.

***

Gladly, Harry slid his sword into its sheath and started to put the potion vials into the little compartments along the belt. It looked very much like a Muggle ammunition belt but for the compartments being a bit larger to hold the vials.

Then he slipped the belt diagonally across his chest, slid into the straps of the sword sheath he would wear on his back, down his spine, only slightly turned to the right so the sword handle wouldn’t hit him in the neck, and, last but not least, fastened his wand holster to his left forearm. His cloak went over everything and finally, apart from the empty slots on his belt, his whole arsenal was once more where it belonged.

Harry practised drawing and resheathing everything a few times, and, satisfied with the results, he decided to take a little nap until dinner. The spell-casting on his cloak had left him with a faint headache and it wouldn’t do to face Snape with something distracting him. Plus, he had to think of a plan to get his Draco back. Grinning at his own thoughts (and what Draco would say to being called “his”), he took off cloak, boots and belts, leaving everything easily within arm’s reach, set himself a waking charm and fell asleep. He had long ago mastered the art of sleeping whenever and wherever he had the opportunity to, like every good soldier.

***


	4. Chapter 4

~ +++ ~

With a sigh of relief, Hermione Granger closed her door behind her.

It had been a long day, and an exhausting one. Wizarding Britain was still reeling from the chaos of the war, but Dumbledore had managed to set up the funerals. More specifically, Harry’s funeral…

She swallowed hard. _Enough tears_ , she reprimanded herself. It seemed to her she’d spent practically the last two days crying.

But she felt so lonely, with her two best friends gone. She hadn’t known it was possible to miss anyone as much as she missed her two boys.

Only now was she realizing _how much_ time they’d actually spent together. They’d grown up together! Always sticking together, planning, plotting, arguing, joking… Good and bad times, they’d seen it all. There had been rows, some of them big, but they’d always made up in the end.

And now she was the only one of them left, and it hurt, it hurt so much. She felt so lost, so lonely without their voices and comments and… everything! They knew each other so well, had gotten familiar with all their little quirks and peculiarities…

If she only had at least one of them left! But both of them at the same time… It was just too much. The tears threatened again and she decided resolutely to start working on something, if only to take her mind off of how alone she felt.

With a deep breath, she triggered the illusion spell she had of Harry. If there was even the slightest chance to get at least one of them back…

Critically, she studied the image before her.

No, no, it didn’t look exactly like Harry. She couldn’t really put her finger on it… Those freckles, yes, and the hair colour was a bit off, too… If she could only see his eyes… But they were closed, so no…

The line of chin and cheekbones… too soft, somehow. But on the other hand… they had buried this guy as Harry Potter, Saviour of the Light, and no one seemed to have noticed anything being not as it should be. Even Dumbledore…

But something was _wrong_ , she knew it. Something was not at all as it should be, and she somehow had the impression that it was obvious, really…

She ran her eyes once more over the image of the face. Chin, mouth, nose, closed eyes, hair, thick strands hanging over his forehead, hiding his scar… No wait.

She started.

Yes, his hair was hanging over his forehead where his scar should be. However, no matter how closely she looked, she couldn’t make out the faintest trace of it. And she should at least have been able to see the edges. But the skin was smooth and unblemished. This guy did _not_ have Harry’s legendary scar.

But… at the funeral… someone would have noticed, for sure…

She zoomed in on her illusion in the area of his forehead and looked very, very thoroughly. No scar. She was sure, there was no scar there.

Flicking her wand and terminating the illusion, she swept out of her rooms again and went in search of Albus Dumbledore.

~ +++ ~

As Harry entered the Great Hall for dinner he got, again, stared at.

 _Well, no wonder_ , Lily thought, since he now looked positively dangerous. With some surprise she noticed that, although her first impression of him had been one of danger, over the last few days that had dulled. That might have to do with the fact that he had turned out to be rather… small. He was shorter than James and her, even shorter than Hermione Granger. Lily wasn’t one hundred percent sure, since she hadn’t met her son face-to-face for the last six years, but she thought he was shorter than his alternate version of this world, too. She wondered why.

He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be bothered much by that. He carried himself with the grace and confidence of someone sure of his own abilities.

And now he strolled into the Great Hall looking as if he… well, as if he were going to war every second. He even wore a _sword_!

Ignoring, or perhaps not registering the looks he was once again getting, he sat down after nodding a friendly greeting.

Before anyone could start asking questions, though, they were interrupted by the entrance of Professor Snape- who wore a sword, too.

Everyone blinked at him. He glared at them.

Then he sat down, nodded a curt greeting at the table in general and started to eat. Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood for answering questions.

Since no one wanted to be on the receiving end of his bad mood, no one asked him any. Instead, they turned on Harry.

“Hey, Potter!” Ron Weasley leant over the table towards him.

Harry looked up. “Yes?”

“Why are you wearing a bloody sword?”

 _Well, polite as usual_ , Lily thought with no small amount of sarcasm. At least he didn't sound as if he was looking for trouble.

“Well, for the same reason I wear the rest of my outfit: for fighting with it,” Harry answered as if that was rather self-explanatory. Which, in a way, it was.

“Yeah, sure, but why would you need it here in the Great Hall?”

“Er…” Harry blinked a few times, clearly puzzled. “I always carry all my weapons with me? After all, you never know when you’re going to be attacked.”

“But surely not in the Great Hall! This is _Hogwarts_ , Potter! We’re safe here.”

Harry’s face took on a cold impression. “We’re at war. There is no such thing as safety, Ron. If they had been prepared, perhaps Ginny, Arthur, Moody, Tonks, Neville and Remus would be alive in my world today. Or not. You never know when death strikes.” He shrugged, a hard, final gesture.

“Ginny?” Ron stared wide-eyed. “My sister? My… my father?”

Harry nodded, looking unseeingly in the distance, lost in memories.

“Yeah… Ginny and Neville went down fighting at the Burrow on Good Friday the year after we graduated. Guess they _were_ prepared after all,” - one corner of his lips twitched up in a sad smile - “after all, between the two of them, they killed seven Death Eaters. But we shouldn’t have left them alone at the Burrow just like that…” He frowned a bit. “Well, Arthur, Mad-Eye and Tonks were surprised at HQ when the Death Eaters stormed it. Not much resistance there. As for Remus… Well, he should have come back when it was apparent the werewolves were likely to join Voldemort.”

Ron’s eyes were wide. “What happened to him?”

Harry raised a wry eyebrow at him. “I don’t think I should go into detail while we’re still eating. Let’s just say it took us a while to find enough pieces to make it worth burying them.”

There was an audible gulp from Ron while several people looked uneasily at their food. But Lily noted that Snape was giving Harry strange sidelong gazes as if he had suddenly turned out to be a fascinating new Potions ingredient.

“So… you think we could be attacked here?” Still wide-eyed, Ron looked around as if expecting to see Death Eaters suddenly jumping out of the shadows.

Harry grinned a bit. “Nah. It’s just the ‘better safe than sorry’ principle. Besides, I probably would have left the sword in my rooms if I didn’t have a duel scheduled for later.”

“A duel?”

“Mister Potter has asked me for a practice fight,” Snape interjected, sounding slightly disdainful like always.

But, Lily noted, he had called Harry ‘ _Mister_ Potter’, not just ‘Potter’ or ‘Potter Junior’, like he used to with her son. Somehow, this Harry seemed to have earned at least a bit of his respect. Harry himself didn’t seem to mind Snape’s tone, because he positively beamed at him.

“And Professor Snape has kindly agreed.”

Snape shot him a suspicious look and grunted something that could be interpreted as an answer. He didn’t seem to be used to hearing his name and the word “kind” within the same sentence.

Neither was Lily. Or anyone else for that matter.

“You know how to sword-fight?” Ron looked at his former teacher disbelievingly.

“Yes, Mister Weasley, I know how to sword-fight,” came the scathing reply.

Ron blushed a bit. “But- But you never said!”

“And why, Mister Weasley, pray tell, would I run around telling that to everyone? No one ever asked me.”

While Ron tried to come up with a suitable answer, Harry chuckled silently. He really didn’t seem to mind Snape’s unfriendly demeanour.

Then the topic of conversation shifted and they continued their dinner in peace.

Afterwards, Snape nodded to Harry.

“Well then, Potter, shall we?”

Harry grinned back (which seemed to irritate Snape) and nodded happily. “Yes, please! I can’t wait to test this sword.”

Snape raised one eyebrow at him. “Patience is a virtue, Potter.”

Harry just grinned insolently back. “Whoever said I was virtuous?” he asked, batting his lashes in faked innocence at the man.

Snape scowled, clearly puzzled by this behaviour, then shrugged and stalked into the empty centre of the Great Hall.

Lily frowned a bit. Like the others, she stayed to watch this sword fight, the first she had ever seen. Harry’s behaviour was strange. It nearly seemed as if… No. She shook her head at her own thoughts. Surely he couldn’t be _flirting_ with Snape?

Harry followed Snape into the centre of the Hall and they faced each other, not unlike the beginning of a Wizarding duel, a good ten paces apart.

They bowed, both without taking their eyes off their opponent, then they simultaneously reached for their swords, Harry’s hand grabbing the handle behind his shoulder while Snape’s hand shot to the one at his side.

With a hissing noise, both blades cleared their sheaths and Lily watched with fascination as the torchlight flowed along gleaming steel like liquid fire.

For a moment, they both just stood there, measuring the other with their gazes, both clothed in black and bathed in reddish light.

Then Harry shot forwards, nearly faster than the eye could see, his sword lunging for the other man, who whipped out of the way and steel screamed on steel.

From then on the fight continued at breathtaking speed, flashing blades and swirling black robes, as they danced back and forth through the Hall. Even an amateur like Lily could see that both of them were really, really good.

A few times, she nearly cried out when it seemed that one of the sharp edges must surely have met flesh this time, but every time the steel met empty air or was blocked.

It continued like that for long minutes, the only sounds being the clanging of metal on metal, the laboured breathing of the combatants and the crackling of the torches.

Finally, Harry ducked under one blow, shoved Snape’s sword arm out of the way with his left forearm, hooked one foot behind one of Snape’s and brought his own sword downwards in the same movement. Snape lost his balance and fell, his sword skittered across the floor and Harry’s sword point stopped just lightly touching the skin under Snape’s jaw.

He was breathing heavily, his face shining with sweat and his chest heaving, but the hand that held the sword was perfectly steady.

“Wow,” he panted, “I won.” A big grin spread over his face.

“So you did.” Snape acknowledged without moving more than just his lips.

Harry laughed breathlessly, took the sword point away from Snape’s throat and held out his other hand to help him off the floor.

“That’s the first time I ever won against you,” he laughed, while pulling the other man to his feet.

“Well, I have to admit, you are very good. Who taught you?” Snape asked while he went to retrieve his own sword.

“Why, _you_ did.” Harry grinned. “And that’s the first time you have ever admitted that I was actually good. Perhaps I _have_ learned something in the three years since I duelled you the last time.”

“ _I_ taught you?” Snape turned and favoured Harry with a sceptical gaze. “Why would I agree to that?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, you had no choice. Neither did I. Headmaster’s orders.” He grinned.

“Ah,” Snape said, as if that explained everything, which, in a way, it did. He raised a black eyebrow at Harry. “So I take it you weren’t too happy about the arrangement, either.”

Harry grinned. “No, not five years ago. Back then, we still had some… issues to resolve.”

His grin spread and Lily thought she saw it turn a touch… dirty?

Snape’s second eyebrow joined the first. “The Headmaster had me teach you sword-fighting five years ago? But you must have been what, fifteen? Still in school, or not?”

“Sixteen,” Harry corrected. “And, yes, I had just started my sixth year, and the war hit us full force, so the Headmaster seemed to think it would be time to start with my special training.”

The eyebrows rose even farther up. “Special training?” Snape echoed. “Potter Junior getting special training by the Headmaster? How so?”

The disdain and sneer Lily associated with the bitter man was back full force. Curiously she turned to Harry to see how he dealt with it. As easy and relaxed as he seemed to act around the Potions master, perhaps he didn’t take his scathing remarks seriously and thought the man was just joking?

As she looked at Harry, his face had become a blank mask, the easy grin vanished as if wiped away. His eyes narrowed slightly, becoming hard and unreadable, his stance nearly unnoticeably more tense, more guarded, more erect. She could practically see the walls slamming into place. And she had the distinct feeling they were made of steel.

What had happened to this boy that he was so... careful? Sometimes it seemed like he wore his heart on his sleeve, cheerful and easy-going as he was, but he still managed to keep nearly all personal information to himself. Okay, he’d apparently lived in a war for the last six years and seen horrible things, judging from the bits he had told them, but she still had a feeling there was more. He seemed to have a deeply-rooted distrust of other people, always rather assuming the worst of a person than the best.

Now he was fixing Snape with a cold look, which seemed to make the Potions Master slightly uneasy even though he wasn’t showing it. Lily could understand him. She had never seen an expression quite like that on her son’s face. Anger, blind rage even, yes, but this... hardness? This aura of forced calm, like the cover of ice on a volcano of boiling anger? No, her son had never been this… controlled.

“I had rather hoped to avoid this here...” Harry said, coolly, quietly, but again, there was steel under his voice. “Firstly, _Mister_ Snape, I didn’t get my special training by the Headmaster, but mostly by you, Professor Lupin and Mad-Eye Moody. Secondly, I most certainly didn’t ask to have a megalomaniac lunatic chasing after me with a personal grudge, but since that was the case and there _was_ this dreaded prophecy I had to fulfil, I rather preferred being prepared and not relying on pure luck. Thirdly,” - his voice dropped even farther, nearly becoming a dangerous whisper, and he took a step towards the other man, staring up into his eyes unblinkingly - “please _don’t_ call me ‘Potter Junior’. ‘Potter’ or ‘Mister Potter’ is okay, though I’d really prefer just ‘Harry’. _I_. am. _NOT_. my father, so please don’t throw me into the same category with _him_. I know this must be hard for you, but please treat me as my own person. If you have issues with him, that is between you and _him,_ and be happy that here you even have the chance to work your differences out with him, seeing as he _hasn’t_ been dead the last twenty years.” The cold gaze swept shortly over to where James and Lily were standing, before returning to the man in front of him, who was listening to the words in some surprise.

“Know, though,” Harry continued in the same silky, steely tone of voice, “that if your history with the Marauders here is anything like where I come from, you have my full understanding. If _I_ ’d been present at some of those occasions, believe me, I’d have hexed the whole lot of them as soon as looked at them.” And with that, he whirled in a swirl of black cloak and stalked gracefully out of the Hall, while they watched his departure in astonishment.

Then Snape shot an unreadable look in James and Lily’s direction, but didn’t say anything and made his own exit, robes billowing.

***


	5. Chapter 5

***

Miserably, Harry quickly made his way towards his own rooms. It surprised him how much that “Potter Junior” comment had hurt, but he couldn’t deal with any more people tonight.

Of course he had _known_ that the Snape here wasn’t the one he had come to know, but Snape had seemed so much like himself that it had been only too easy to disregard that. And he could now see that he had unconsciously suppressed that knowledge, clutching at something that seemed so familiar in this alien world which at times seemed so much like home and then again so completely different.

Yes, he knew he probably should have cut Snape more slack than he had; after all he didn’t know any details about Snape’s history with his other self here, only that they hadn’t gotten along. And, really, it rather sounded as if his self here had been more of a jerk than he’d like.

Sighing, he arrived in his rooms and shed his weapons and boots before falling onto his bed.

He felt really miserable. A knot of sadness and longing twisted in his stomach and made breathing hard. With some astonishment he noted that his eyes were burning and he was close to tears.

Firmly locking and silencing the room, he gave himself over to the misery.

After the disaster that had been his fifth year, he had come to the conclusion that burying away his emotions just resulted in him becoming moody, cranky and unreliable. It clouded his judgement and prevented him from keeping a clear head, and he just couldn’t afford that. So he let the tears and sobs spill while he tried to come to terms with his feelings.

Why did one little comment shove him over the edge into a full-blown break down?

He realized it wasn’t so much the one little comment, but more that that comment had been the last straw on an already-overloaded camel’s back.

In all the confusion of coming here, he’d never once really gotten the chance to mourn the dead of the final battle, Ron and Draco… Another sob choked him.

Gone, gone forever, the ones he had known. Yes, they were alive here, but they weren’t the same people he had known, those he shared so many memories with. They just _weren’t_.

His best friend, his companion through so many fights and trials, the one who’d backed him up since he was eleven, Ron, who never held back with his opinions, and even if he wasn’t always tolerant, was at least always honest- he was dead. No more appalled comments about his choice in lovers, no more heated Quidditch discussions, no more Ron…

And Draco… he wrapped his own arms around himself, holding himself. That utter _bastard_! How typical! Did he have to show him what he was missing and then go and fucking _die_? It was just so unfair… He’d fought that attraction for so long, before he came to terms with it, and by then it had been way too late to save Draco from the Dark, get him on their side, or at least to stay neutral. And then that bastard had to go and show up in his rooms… then he had to go and show him his human side, his likeable side, his brilliant wit, his passion, his surprising gentleness… and _then_ he killed Ron and got himself killed on top of it!

And Harry missed him, even knowing that the man he was attracted to was fighting for the other side. At least as long as he was alive, Harry could dream. He missed the fights, missed facing off with Draco across the battle field. He missed the hissed insults and glares they threw at each other, knowing that the other was ready to kill and the ever-present undercurrent of sexual tension heating things up even more. Yes, he even missed the cold glares, the contempt, the insults, all those well-worn paths in their fights. Nevertheless, they both always were aware of the insinuations behind it all and were able to communicate with just a hard look. They knew each other so very well. And now even that, his best, favourite, enemy, was gone…

And he was stuck here in a different world, seeing those people every day, but not sharing any memories with them. No in-jokes, no bickering like only old friends could, no knowing looks and easy smiles.

 _I want to go home_ , he thought miserably.

Not only home to his world, but his world before the final battle. Or rather, his world _without_ the final battle. His world like it could have been. Had it not been for _Voldemort_.

Yes, he could make a new start here, but it was so hard. He was twenty-one, a grown man, and the people here didn’t know him. They had their own history with someone who had his name, looked apparently very similar to him, but _wasn’t_ him. It threw him off-balance, people expecting him to act like that guy. He had gotten so used to being expected to be the hero that he hadn’t even realized _he_ was expecting people to expect that. Here, they didn’t. He’d always thought that was what he wanted, to be just Harry, not to be famous, not to have this huge responsibility, but now he found it was too late for that, he was too used to it and it irritated him if people didn’t let him be in charge.

He missed Hermione. He missed all of his friends, but with Herm it was a different thing. He knew she was alive back home, or at least had been three days ago. And he felt slightly guilty for leaving her alone. He suspected the light from the spell would have reached him no matter what, but he wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Perhaps he could have stayed? And now she was alone, and probably thought he was dead, too. If he could just have her here… He would be able to talk to her about everything and she would listen to him and understand him, give him an outside view of things. Back when he’d finally accepted that he did feel something besides contempt and dislike for Draco, she had been the one to support him, to get him back in perspective. In time, they had told Ron, too, but she had been the first person he’d talked to about that. He _so_ needed her motherly scolding. She’d fix him with a stern look and say something like, “Harry, don’t be silly. I understand it’s not easy for you, but stop wallowing in self-pity. That won’t help anyone. You can’t change it, so accept it and work with what you have. You’ll see, it will be all right.” He had to smile faintly as he recalled her stern tone and piercing look, “channelling McGonagall”, as they used to call it. Then Ron would clap him on the back and whisper (though loud enough for her to hear), “Better go along with it, mate, you know how she is…”; and after Herm glared at him reproachfully and he gave her a look of fake innocence, they’d all share a laugh and the world would be all right again.

But they weren’t here, and Ron would never laugh with anyone again, and he was alone. Alone and homesick in a world that wasn’t his own but needed him nonetheless.

Harry sighed, wiped the last tears away, blew his nose and curled up to sleep. _Enough wallowing in self-pity_ , he decided. Tomorrow would be a new day, and he had work to do: namely, get Draco back and think of a strategy against Voldemort- but first, Draco.

Fully clothed (as had been his habit for the last years- one never knew when one had to be ready) he drew the covers up to his nose and fell asleep, exhausted from his emotions and the tiring day. His last thought was that he had to pick up his training habits. It would make him calmer.

***

The next morning found Harry running laps around the castle, his breath condensing in white puffs in the cool air. He was only wearing shorts and T-shirt, his usual boots replaced by trainers. Of course he wasn’t without all of his arsenal. He still had his wand and two knives with him, one strapped to an arm, the other one to a calf. The regular rhythm of his feet pounding on the ground and the stinging air in his lungs served to anchor him more firmly in the here-and-now. Ever since he’d found himself in this world, he’d felt slightly off-balance, disoriented; but this familiar feeling of his body straining and working gave him the desired measure of calm. Despite the cool air, he was far from cold, the work-out making him glad for the cool breeze.

A bit later he started brushing up on his martial arts. He didn’t have anyone to train with, but he still went through the forms, practicing combinations of kicks and punches, enjoying the feeling of his muscles stretching and straining. When he had claimed he wanted to learn fighting Muggle-style, his teachers had looked at him strangely and Snape hadn’t kept back the scathing comments, but after Harry had gotten remarkably better with the sword as well, even he had had to admit that it might have its merits. And it did have the undeniable advantage of catching enemies of the Wizarding kind by surprise more often than not. They expected to be hit by a curse, not a kick to the chest.

***

Tired, but feeling much more peaceful than he’d felt in the past few days, Harry returned inside just as breakfast was starting. His T-shirt was clinging to him and his hair was dripping with sweat, so he excused himself for a quick shower.

During breakfast, he received wary glances, but nobody seemed inclined to address the evening before, so Harry didn’t mention it either.

While he was eating hungrily, two big eagle owls swooped through the windows, carrying a big package between them. They carefully set it on the table and took off again before he had a chance to offer them anything. The potions supplies he had been waiting for had arrived. And that meant he would have to visit Snape again to finish everything.

He didn’t quite know how the man had taken his little outburst the evening before, and so he had been thankful that Snape preferred to have his breakfast in his own rooms. But he had to face him again anyway if he wanted to save Draco.

So he went down to the dungeons again after he had finished eating. The sooner the better, he guessed.

***

“Yes?” Snape watched him with an unreadable expression as he opened his door to Harry’s knocking.

Harry indicated the ingredients in his arms. “The rest of the ingredients arrived this morning. I thought we’d best finish the potions as soon as possible.”

“I see. Come in.” Snape held the door open for him and Harry once again entered his rooms.

Well, at least Snape wasn’t raving mad at him.

***

Once again the atmosphere between them relaxed while they were carefully finishing the potions, and as they set them aside to cool, Harry decided to address the topic of Draco.

“Professor?” he inquired politely.

“Yes?” Snape looked at him questioningly.

“I was wondering if I could ask another favour of you.”

Black eyebrows rose a fraction. “And what kind of favour would that be?”

“I wanted to ask you for the likely location of Draco Malfoy at the moment.”

The eyebrows shot up further in surprise. “And why would you want to know that?”

“Because…” Harry began, and then thought he’d better go with the truth. “I want to kidnap him.”

For a moment Snape just stared at him, obviously unsure if he was joking or not. “And _why_ would you want to do that?” he inquired when Harry gave no further explanation.

“Well, because I want to save him. I don’t want him to die. But if he has any similarities to the Draco Malfoy I know… knew,” he corrected himself, “he won’t want to be saved.” Harry shrugged. “So I thought I’d probably have to force him to come with me, hence kidnap him. Of course that way, in the unlikely case I will lose this war, he can always claim I forced him and he was a prisoner, and if he gets that over the right way, perhaps Voldemort won’t punish him as a traitor.”

“What happened to the Draco Malfoy you knew?”

Ah. Of course Snape hadn’t overlooked that little detail. “He died.” Harry couldn’t help the short tone that indicated he didn’t want to talk about it.

“And why would you want to save Draco Malfoy? I don’t know how the one you knew was, and I don’t know what your relationship with him was, but you must be aware of the fact that the one of _this_ world is a Death Eater, and I gather you aren’t particularly fond of Death Eaters.”

Harry had to smile a bit. “In general, I’m not, and I’m a big fan of letting people get out of the messes they got themselves into by themselves. But, well,” he shrugged, “I’ll make an exception for Draco.” It felt strange to call him 'Draco' out loud, though he’d done it in his own head for years.

“Out of the goodness of your heart,” Snape said dryly and doubtfully.

A grin twitched at the edges of Harry’s mouth. “In fact, no. My reasons are purely selfish.”

“And what would those reasons be?” Snape seemed pretty protective of Draco. He probably was Draco’s godfather in this world, too, and someone had mentioned that the two of them got along well, hadn’t they?

“Huh, well…” Harry couldn’t fight the slight blush. He’d gotten over any embarrassment about being gay years ago, but then, if you lived in a war, your sexuality just wasn’t anyone’s biggest worry. “That’s a bit of a longer story.”

Snape just continued looking at him with raised eyebrows, signalling him to go on with it.

“Well, I’m gay, and I had a crush on the Draco Malfoy in my world for years.”

“And you want your lover back,” Snape concluded.

Harry sighed. Suddenly weariness overtook him and he sat down on one of the chairs next to him on the workbench.

“In a way.” He sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck, as if trying to rub the tension of years out of it. “You see, Draco Malfoy and I didn’t get along. I hear my self of this world and he had been best friends, but I still have some trouble believing that. Then again, if your Harry Potter here has been as much of a jerk as I hear he was, I _can_ imagine that.”

Snape listened attentively, leaning back against the workbench with his arms folded over his chest.

“Well, Draco and I had this huge rivalry going on, and there never was much question about which side of the fight each of us would be joining. But by the time the inevitable war hit us, I started to notice something else in his presence, namely attraction.” A wry grin twisted his lips.

“Imagine my horror,” he stated ironically, rolling his eyes. He heard a light snort coming from Snape which he easily recognized as hidden amusement.

“So the first year of the war I spent fighting that attraction, while he really joined Voldemort’s forces, being Daddy’s good little boy. What followed was a lot of tangled-up emotions on my side and I-don’t-know-what on his side.

“But by the time I finally got over myself and could admit that I wanted him like crazy, he was an Inner-Circle Death Eater, fifth-most-wanted man in all of Britain with a criminal record as long as you’re tall. There was no going back for him. The Light side wouldn’t have taken him even if he had wanted to change sides. Which he most certainly didn’t,” Harry added dryly.

“But believe it or not, the attraction was mutual. We never talked about it, of course, since we never talked anyway, but then again, we didn’t need to.” He gave a wistful and slightly bitter smile, lost in reminiscence.

“I knew it, he knew it. And I knew, and he knew, that it wouldn’t happen. We were both too deeply involved in the war, there was no way back. We both were as ready to kill each other as to kiss each other. But of course, he couldn’t leave things like that. One night he sneaked up to my rooms, and I still have no clue how he managed it. I didn’t ask. So, we were lovers for one night. The next morning he killed my best friend and got killed himself in the same battle. And that was the story of Draco Malfoy and me, and now you know why I don’t want to let it get that far this time.”

Harry focused back on the here-and-now and looked up at Snape, who watched him in turn with something like carefully disguised horror.

“Here the war has just started, and I gather Draco isn’t very high up in the hierarchy yet, so no official will care very much for his arrest. I think that if I get him out now, no one will bother trying him.”

Snape nodded slowly. “I see. Well,” he shrugged lightly, “I have to admit I don’t exactly approve of Draco’s choice of career. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but I’m his godfather,” - Harry nodded slightly - “and I have to admit to a certain fondness for the little brat.” A very small hint of a grin curled the corners of Snape’s mouth.

Harry couldn’t fight a little grin of his own.

“I really would have liked to dissuade Draco from joining Voldemort’s forces, but considering my position, I couldn’t risk even the slightest hint of not being totally loyal, and I frankly didn’t trust Draco enough to indicate anything in that direction to him, since I don’t know how deep his loyalty actually runs. He’s difficult to read, even at his young age.”

Snape sounded faintly admiring at that last statement. Then he focused his black gaze back on Harry.

“Anyway, I actually think this little idea of yours has some merit to it. I’m willing to help you as long as my name doesn’t get mentioned along the way _and_ you don’t make the mistake of trusting Draco out of some romantic delusion.” He looked at Harry somewhat sternly.

Harry raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “Oh _please_ , what kind of fool do you take me for? Just because I’m lusting after his pretty little body doesn’t mean I’d _trust_ him. Believe me, I know how to take the necessary precautions. Do you seriously think I’d still be alive if I was that blindly stupid?”

It was Snape’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Harry. “Well, you ARE a Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

Harry had to grin up at the man. “Yes, I am, and believe it or not, ‘Gryffindor’ doesn’t equal ‘stupid’. And I’ll tell you a little secret.” He rose from the chair and leaned in and slightly up to Snape. “I’m a Slytherin, too,” he stage-whispered, before smirking at the slightly confused man.

“But don’t tell anyone,” Harry continued, his smirk replaced again by a grin, “There’s no better disguise than people believing you to be a good righteous Gryffindor. Which I am. It’s just not _all_ that I am.”

“How can you claim to be a Gryffindor and a Slytherin at the same time?” Clearly, Harry had just questioned his very solid view of the workings of the world.

“Well,” Harry shrugged, “the Sorting Hat wanted to place me in Slytherin, but I didn’t want to go there, because I fell victim to Dumbledore’s propaganda and Draco’s unpleasant character. So I got Sorted into Gryffindor instead. The Hat kept insisting I’d have made a good Slytherin, and I feel tempted to agree with it. But, well, I make a good Gryffindor, too.”

“I’m not sure if I believe you…” Snape said. “Harry Potter in Slytherin? The one _I_ knew was as much of a Gryffindor as one can be.” Snape sneered lightly at the thought. “Well, no wonder, if one looks at who raised him…”

Harry nodded and shuddered slightly. “Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that old Tommy killed off my parents, if it was what prevented me from becoming a complete ass. It didn’t make life particularly easy, though.”

Snape looked at him strangely. “You agree with me that your parents and Gryffindors in general are a bunch of idiots?”

“Well,” Harry cocked his head slightly to the side, considering, “not Gryffindors in general, and only my father. From what I know about my mother, she was all right. I just have a dislike for people who consider themselves better than the rest of humanity. I don’t care if it’s a Gryffindor or a Slytherin having that attitude, or a Muggle or a wizard for that. It’s all the same thing, and it’s not as if any House, or any other group of people, were immune to it. I think, actually it’s a very human way of thinking.

“But if someone lives out that attitude where I can hear or see them, I take the right for myself to tell them what I think about shit like that, even if that’s arrogant, too.”

Snape was silent for a moment and seemed to consider him. “It seems you are full of surprises, Mister Potter,” he finally said, almost admiringly.

Harry shrugged. “One does what one can,” he answered, putting on an innocent and earnest expression.

Snape gave a quiet snort and then turned back to the potions cooling on the work table. “I think we should get finished with this, and then we should probably plot your little rescue mission before informing the Headmaster.”

Harry nodded and they set to filling up the potions vials and to tidying up the lab.

***

Afterwards they started plotting, as Snape had put it.

He was able to give Harry Draco’s most-likely location at one of the Death Eater strongholds. It wasn’t Voldemort’s headquarters, but still, not an easy task to be undertaken.

“Do you think I could just walk in?” Harry asked thoughtfully.

“Just walk in?” Snape looked at him with slightly wide eyes, which, for him, was a positively shocked expression.

But Harry nodded. “Yes, just walk in. The Harry Potter of this world was a Death Eater, after all. Why shouldn’t I take advantage of that?”

“Hm...” Snape tapped a finger on his chin, apparently thinking about it.

“Well, you should be aware of the fact that you don’t look exactly like your alternate version. You’re smaller, and your hair and eye colour are different, especially your eyes.

“Then again, if you wore hooded robes, you could probably pass as our Harry Potter. You just would have to be careful not to get into any good lighting. I could give you the password. Of course,” - here Snape gave him a stern look - “this will just work once, then your cover is blown.”

Harry nodded. “But what about _your_ cover?” he asked then. “Wouldn’t giving me the password make them aware of the fact that they have a leak?”

At that Snape gave him a very approving look. “You obviously think before you leap, a very rare quality in a Gryffindor,” he remarked dryly.

Harry grinned. “Well, I had a good teacher. If I didn’t want to subject myself to another of your rants about what a stupid, foolish, imbecile Gryffindor I was, and how did I ever manage to stay alive for a single day, and don’t _dare_ I come to _you_ crying if I got us all killed, and so on, and so on, well,” he shrugged, “I had to learn to think first, then act, not the other way round.”

Snape blinked. “ _I_ said that?”

Harry’s grin just got broader. “Among a lot of other unfavourable things, yes.”

Snape looked a bit confused. “But I was under the impression you liked me, for some reason I don’t understand.”

“I _do_ like you. The history between you and me, or rather the alternate you and me, though, is pretty complicated.”

Snape raised a questioning eyebrow. “Oh? Would you mind telling me?”

“Not at all,” Harry shook his head. “But perhaps some other time? I’d like to get business out of the way first.”

“Very well.” Snape nodded. “As to your concerns, no, they won’t suspect a leak, because they are, unfortunately, already sure that there is one.”

“Oh?” Now Harry’s eyebrow shot up, in a pretty similar gesture. It was kind of obvious where he had picked the habit up from. Then he smirked. “Don’t tell me you screwed up?”

At that, Snape glared at him. “No, I did _not_ ‘screw up’, as you put it,” he said distinctly. “It was more a combination of unhappy circumstances. I’ll tell you some other time.”

“And they won’t suspect you? Because you had contact with me here at Hogwarts?”

Snape frowned. “You have a point there. It might point to me…”

“Just give me the location then. I’ll sneak in on my own.”

“Are you sure?” Snape looked at him with something like concern. “This isn’t without risk, you know. Even if it is just a camp of the younger Death Eaters and a few older ones for supervision, you shouldn’t underestimate them.”

Harry looked surprised. “A Junior Death Eater training camp, then?”

At Snape’s nod he grinned. “Oh, please, if _that_ is going to be a problem, I might as well just jump off the Astronomy Tower now. If I don’t manage to get in there, what chance in hell do I have at defeating old Voldie himself?”

“Well, none, I’d say,” Snape stated dryly. “I’m just not convinced you actually _do_ have a chance.”

“Well, let’s have this as a test round then. You give me the location, and then you’ll see if I can live up to my promises.” Harry grinned.

“Well, if you think so...” Snape looked slightly puzzled.

This Harry Potter clearly wasn’t the one he was used to. But he gave Harry the location, and Harry thanked him and took his leave then to go talk with the Headmaster about his little planned adventure.

***

After lunch Harry got ready to leave Hogwarts to go rescue Draco. He couldn’t quite suppress the nervous knot in his stomach. He was going to see Draco again. He was (hopefully) going to get a second chance. If he just didn’t screw up this thing.

 _Come on, old boy,_ he kept telling himself, _you have been on much more dangerous and complicated missions._ That was true, of course, but it didn’t help with the nervousness.

But after he had gathered all his weapons and tucked them into their respective places on his person and familiarized himself with the map he had borrowed from Dumbledore with the area around the camp, he started to feel calmer.

And as he left Hogwarts and marched across the grounds towards the gate, he felt his usual concentration settle in. This was a mission. He was going to treat it like one, and he was going to be successful. If he started doubting that, he wouldn’t get very far.

***


	6. Chapter 6

***

Tired, Draco returned to his room after another training session. Luckily, they had just trained the Imperius Curse. Draco was good with that particular curse, so his distracted state hadn’t affected his performance.

Because he _was_ distracted.

He entered their, no, _his_ room and collapsed on his bed with a sigh.

It still felt strange to not have Harry around. He couldn’t quite believe his best friend was dead. In his head, he knew it, but somehow... Somehow he was still expecting to turn the next corner and see him standing there, or coming sauntering into the room, his usual grin on his face.

Draco had to admit it, he missed the damn Gryffindor. He missed his stupid comments, his enthusiasm, his crazy ideas... Harry had become something of a little brother to him. And now he was gone.

The worst thing was that it made him doubt everything. The last three days Draco had spent in some kind of floating state, feeling as if he wasn’t quite real. Or as if the world wasn’t quite real.

That battle for Hogwarts had been bad enough. All the chaos, and the curses flying and everything... Draco didn’t want to have to admit it, but it had terrified him.

He suddenly realized how much he had been kept from the real stuff so far. Up until that battle, the whole Death Eater thing had been some kind of a game for him, and for Harry, too. They felt cool and strong, and bad, terrifying Muggles and burning down some house or other.

After all, it was just _Muggles_ , right? Hardly more than animals. Of course, Draco wasn’t so sure about even that anymore, but he had always managed to suppress that particular thought, and since Harry hadn’t seemed to be bothered by it at all it had been easy to just go along.

But now... now nothing was certain anymore. And Harry was dead. _Dead_! Gone! Forever!

And no one else seemed to care. Not for Draco’s grief, not for Harry’s death. It made Draco wonder if they were just... expendable? Cannon fodder?

Suddenly, it _wasn’t_ a game anymore. Suddenly, it was all frightfully real. People were dying. Not just a bit of destruction here and there, not just practising Unforgivables on animals. No, Draco had the uncomfortable feeling that things were about to become real, and _bad_. And he was in _way_ over his head, with no way out.

Sighing, he pushed the uncomfortable thoughts away again. Perhaps, if he kept just doing that, they would go away eventually. It was time for dinner anyway and he was hungry. Sort of.

He splashed a few handfuls of cold water onto his face, refusing to look in the mirror while he did so. Lately he didn’t like the look on his face. Too pale, too wide-eyed, too shocked.

He dried off and went.

***

He had just stepped out of his room and turned around to check if it was really locked. When he turned back around to head towards the dining room, a black-clad figure was leaning against the opposite wall.

Draco gasped, startled, and felt his eyes go wide.

The only light in the corridor came from a nearby window, through which moonlight filtered. It painted the hallway in sharp black-and-white stripes.

Most of the figure’s face was in shadow, only the line of chin and mouth showing. A few strands of dark, unruly hair framed what Draco could see of his face.

But that line of chin, the shape of that mouth and the general appearance of the figure was awfully familiar.

A slight smirk tugged the lips up on one corner.

“Hi.”

One word, but the voice was familiar, too.

“Ha- _Harry_??” Draco managed to choke out.

But something was off. Draco couldn’t quite place it, his thoughts were running in chaotic circles and he was completely shocked, but somehow he wasn’t sure if this was Harry or not...

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

Huh? Sorry? What was he sorry for? Draco had a confused moment wondering if Harry was sorry for dying, then a wand whipped up, fast, so fast, “ _Stupefy_ ,” and the last thing Draco remembered before darkness swallowed him was that red beam heading for him.

***

Throwing the unconscious Draco over his shoulder, Harry activated the Portkey he had prepared in advance to take his captive and himself back to Hogwarts. He had to smirk as the familiar tug behind his navel set in. That had been almost too easy.

***

He’d arrived around noon and spent several hours observing the location.

The camp consisted of a single massive house, standing at the top of a cliff out in the middle of nowhere. As far as one could see, there was nothing but windy, empty, slightly rolling land with a few groups of gnarled trees and scruffy bushes strewn over it. Behind the house the land ended and the sea began, as empty as the surrounding landscape.

Harry had walked around the building once, covered in his Invisibility Cloak and with a Silencing Charm on himself.

There was only one entrance, and a few subtle detection charms had revealed strong wards around the house. The only way in was the front door. And that was guarded.

Helped by a few more charms, Harry had been able to climb the walls of the building and look in through the windows. The wards were set directly into the outer walls, probably to keep them as small and unobtrusive as possible, but this meant that Harry could use magic outside of the walls just fine without setting off any kind of alarm. As long as he didn’t try to cast anything directly at the building but stuck to casting charms only upon himself, he could do whatever amount of magic he liked. Really, it would have been more intelligent to create the wards a little distance away from the building so no one could get close enough to nose around as he had done. Or they should at least have secured the surrounding area with some trapping- and alarming spells. But no, nothing. Careless.

With taking those little peeks through the windows, he managed to familiarize himself at least partly with the interior of the house.

Then he made himself comfortable a little distance away to observe the guard at the door for the next few hours.

There was only one guard, and the sentry changed every hour.

Harry could do nothing but shake his head. He’d never encountered any Death Eaters as non-paranoid as those.

 _A single guard? Standing around there for an hour? And if something happens to him, no one will know until the next shift comes around..._ Harry smirked to himself. Well, if they were practically inviting him in like this, who was he to refuse?

While he had been spying through the windows he’d overheard two Junior Death Eaters mentioning that their training classes would let out a quarter of an hour before dinner which, apparently, was served at seven in the evening. And he had managed to locate Malfoy’s training room. It had been strange to see the young blond man standing there, casting 'Imperius' on his co-students... that beautiful face he’d seen frozen in death only three days ago alive, moving and talking...

Malfoy’d looked a bit strained, though. Not at all with that superior smirk he was so used to seeing on those features. Somehow this Malfoy looked... younger than the one he’d known.

Well, there was no use dwelling on that now, so Harry returned to the front of the building after he made sure that Malfoy would be coming out of that classroom later on.

He Disillusioned himself hidden by some nearby shrubs; after all, the bad guys didn’t need to know he had an Invisibility Cloak, and then slowly approached the lone guard.

He had decided to be very open about his political intentions and his origin. This was a magical community, after all, and they should be able to accept a magical explanation for his being there, and he really didn’t want people to mistake him for a Death Eater. Also, he thought Voldemort needed some very outspoken opposition here. After the slow build-up over decades, where people had tried to ignore their worries to the best of their ability, the whole community was completely spooked with the sudden open war. Voldemort was using a scare tactic and he was successful.

Well, Harry intended to make a very _un_ -scared example of himself. So he guessed it was time to issue a little challenge to Voldemort. He smirked in grim satisfaction. Oh, yes, he wanted that bastard to know he was there and going to kill him.

It was as if he finally got to have his revenge. Killing Voldemort in his world had been over far too quickly for his tastes. Here, Voldemort wasn’t reckoning with him. He thought he’d eliminated the prophecy years ago. Well, he was in for a surprise.

So Harry sneaked up on the poor guard standing in front of the closed door. All the man saw before a ' _Petrificus Totalus_ ' hit him was a blur in the air as the Disillusionment Charm couldn’t keep up with Harry’s fast wand movements. Then Harry removed the charm and smirked at the frozen man.

“Take a good look,” he told the guard in a low, but distinctive voice. “I want you to take a message to your Lord. Tell him I was here to get what I wanted, and that the prophecy can still be fulfilled. Tell him I’ll make him _fall_.”

He quickly scanned the door, dismantled the locking spells and threw his Invisibility Cloak over his head again behind the back of the Petrified man. Soundlessly, he slipped into the house.

He hurried to the classroom, tracked Malfoy to his room and was out again in less than a quarter of an hour. Really, those Death Eaters were amateurs.

***

With a little groan Draco woke up again. He needed a moment to remember what had happened: Harry, the spell, darkness... Obviously whoever captured him had let the charm wear off on its own, because this wasn’t the sudden awaking of an ' _Ennervate_ '-spell.

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open.

It was fairly dark, wherever he was. The ceiling above him and the wall next to him looked like stone, and the bed he was lying on was small and pretty hard. He turned his head.

Another expanse of stone floor, long vertical bars and behind them a fairly large room, illuminated by the fire in a fireplace at the far wall. No windows as far as he could see. He was in a cell in a dungeon.

In front of the cell there was a large table, and in front of that, his feet on that table, his chair tilted backwards, Harry was sitting. Or at least someone who looked very similar to Harry. But this guy was wearing clothes Draco had never seen on his best friend and- he was sharpening a knife.

The boots, crossed at the ankles on the table top, were ordinary enough, black dragon-hide. But the rest of the clothing were close-fitting Muggle trousers and an equally close-fitting short-sleeved Muggle shirt, all of it black as well. The only other item of normal clothing seemed to be the black cloak draped over the back of the chair.

Never, _never_ would Harry have worn something like that, and certainly not in such unspectacular monochrome, too. Though, Draco had to admit, these Muggle clothes _did_ make for a good view of a very nice body. They really didn’t seem to hide much. And that guy was sharpening his knife with very practised movements.

If it weren’t for the boots and cloak, and the expertly-executed Stunning Spell, Draco would have classified that guy as a Muggle, even if he did look like Harry. Why would any wizard walk around in those indecent Muggle clothes? he asked himself. And why had he been Stunned and stuffed in a cell?

A bit carefully, he sat up.

At his movement, the hands sharpening the knife stopped and the face, in profile until now, turned, firelight sliding over achingly familiar lines.

“Harry?” Draco asked again, uncertainly.

The knife was expertly tucked into a wrist sheath (without even looking!), the boots taken off the table, and the chair fell onto all four legs with a small grating sound while a small half-smile appeared on the familiar lips.

“Yes. And no,” that equally well-known voice said.

Draco blinked confusedly.

“Guess we need a bit more light.” A hand picked up a wand Draco hadn’t noticed before from the table, and with a careless flick several torches along the walls flared up. The sudden brightness made Draco squint. Once his eyes had adjusted he focused back on that... person, who was now leaning against the table, arms crossed over his chest.

It was Harry. And it wasn’t.

Draco didn’t know how it was possible, but that guy was Harry. If it weren’t for the most vividly green pair of eyes he had ever seen looking calmly at him through thick black lashes. And that strong, nearly harsh, line of jaw. That pale skin, unmarred by the freckles Harry had complained about all the time. And if Draco wasn’t very much mistaken, this guy was too short, too.

“Who are you?” Draco asked, confused.

The guy pushed away from the table and calmly walked over to the cell, stopping just out of arm’s reach from the bars. Draco couldn’t help scanning down the lean body as he moved, long legs emphasized by the Muggle clothing. It took a bit of an effort to drag his eyes back to the boy’s face. Really, there _were_ reasons why this style of clothing shouldn’t be tolerated.

“I’m Harry Potter,” the boy answered. Then he smiled another half-smile. “But not the one you know. To make a long story short, I was brought here with some kind of spell from an alternate reality or world or something.”

Draco blinked. Alternate realities? Those actually existed? And so this _was_ Harry? In a way? Oh, sweet Merlin, he was confused... perhaps if he just stuck to the easy questions...

“And where am I? And why did you Stun me and lock me in here?”

He was slowly working up some anger about that. What was Harry thinking, stuffing him into a dirty little dungeon cell? His best friend would never have dared that. Only perhaps as some kind of joke. He looked searchingly at this other Harry. Was it a joke? If it was, it was a bad one. And where was his wand, anyway? Perhaps he should hex him, to show him what he thought of this...

But his searching fingers couldn’t locate the familiar piece of wood.

“Looking for this?” Harry produced his wand from somewhere behind his back, twirling it between his fingers and smirking at him.

“Yes,” Draco growled, making sure the anger carried. “Now give it back. And let me out.” He stood up. But Harry just tucked the wand away again and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

 _What?_ Draco glowered at him, taking the few steps towards the bars. Standing up, he was very clearly taller than Harry, which meant he really was shorter by at least a couple of inches.

Harry looked up at him, head slightly tilted to one side, completely confident, as if he was used to looking up at people. Which he probably was.

“To answer your questions, you’re at Hogwarts. And you’re in a cell because you’re a Death Eater.”

Draco felt his eyes widen a fraction. “Hogwarts? What are you doing at Hogwarts?”

Harry blinked and frowned slightly. “I’ll never get used to this... Well, to make things clear,” he continued before Draco had a chance to ask what he meant, “I am not, nor will I ever be, a Death Eater, all right? I was brought here to kill Voldemort’s arse, and that is exactly what I am going to do.” The evil little smile Draco knew very well twisted his lips for a moment. “And it will _so_ be my pleasure to do so.”

Draco had to control himself very hard not to gape at that smaller version of his best friend.

“You? Kill the Lord?” was the most coherent thing he could manage.

Harry just inclined his head. “Oh yeah. I did it once, I can do it twice, and I don’t care who knows it.” He smirked. “In fact, I want everyone to know it, especially good old Tom.”

“ ‘Tom’?” Draco asked while still trying to process that _Harry Potter_ intended to kill the Dark Lord. Not that the one he had known hadn’t been powerful all right, but well, he was just a half Mudblood, and this was the _Dark Lord_ they were talking about, for Merlin’s sake!

“Voldemort,” Harry answered. “You didn’t think he was born with that name, did you? His real name is Tom.”

Well, Draco had never really thought about the Dark Lord’s name before, but he had to admit it seemed unlikely that his parents had called him that. But something as mundane as “Tom”? Somehow he couldn’t imagine the Dark Lord he knew with that name. But back to what really bothered him...

“And you want to kill him?”

Harry nodded. “Oh yes.”

“Why?”

Harry blinked at him, as if he was surprised by that question. “He killed my parents,” he said, as if everyone should know that. “And most of my friends. And he tried to kill me.”

“Your parents?” Draco asked, surprised. “They’re dead?”

He hadn’t heard anything about the Potters getting killed...

Another surprised blink, then Harry gave a small laugh. “Not here, you idiot. _My_ parents, not those of your best friend.”

Oh.

Wait, had Harry just called him an idiot?

“Sorry,” Draco huffed, “this is a _bit_ confusing, you know?” A rueful half-smile was his answer.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Well, all right. Now, what is this all about, anyway? Why did you bring me here?”

Harry’s expression turned serious and guarded at once. It was an expression that looked strangely alien on his familiar face. As far as Draco could remember, Harry’s face had always betrayed his emotions, whether he was happy or furious. This... careful blankness was disconcerting.

“I... want to offer you neutrality,” Harry answered, voice as carefully blank as his face.

“And why would I want to stay neutral?” Draco asked, though his interest was already piqued. If it weren’t for the consequences he feared if he got branded as a “blood traitor”, he would really prefer to stay out of the war...

Harry shrugged. “Well, you’re a Slytherin. They are said to be good at survival. And I really don’t want to have to kill you. But if you place yourself between me and Voldemort...”

He didn’t finish the sentence but the expression in his eyes suddenly looked... old. Not cold, but resigned. It sent a chill down Draco’s spine. Suddenly this wasn’t someone who looked nearly like his best friend, but someone who had a goal and who would do whatever it took to reach it.

Dangerous. A soldier, a warrior.

“You’d... kill me?” Draco asked, trying for nonchalance, but failing.

Harry? Kill him? He’d never consider his best friend doing that, but then again, looking at this man, he believed _he_ could do it.

And Harry nodded. “I wouldn’t like it, but yes. If you stand against me, I’d kill you. But that’s what I’m hoping to avoid, as I said. Besides, there are a few more aspects you might want to consider. Perhaps you might even want to change sides completely and fight on my side?”

 _His_ side? Where _did_ that guy come from that he spoke of _his_ side as if it was the most natural thing in the world? Not “our side” or “the side of the Light”; no, _his_ side! He really seemed serious in his plan to pitch himself against the Dark Lord! Either that guy was entirely crazy or way more powerful than the Harry he knew.

“What would be those reasons you’re talking about?” Draco wanted to know.

“Well, to explain that, I’ll have to give you a bit of background on the world I come from.” Harry reached for the chair standing next to the table, turned it around so it was facing Draco and sat down, obviously getting comfortable for a longer story.

Draco leant one shoulder against the bars, arms crossed over his chest.

“You see, where I come from, things went a bit differently,” Harry started. “I’ve been told the open war here started about three months ago. Well, at home it was six years ago.”

He paused to give Draco time to digest that information.

“Since then we’ve fought Voldemort and lived in constant war. I killed him not a week ago.”

Six years of constant war? Draco shuddered mentally at the thought. And why had it taken so long? Voldemort was so incredibly powerful, how could there have been resistance for _six freaking years_? And in the end, Voldemort hadn’t even won?! Draco had been raised in the firm belief that there was no way they could lose, since they were fighting for the right thing, they were the purebloods, they were _superior_! And they had Voldemort! The concept of losing just wasn’t one he had ever dealt with.

“Do you know what six years of war do to a country? To the people, to the economy?” Harry asked him, again with that old, jaded look in his eyes.

Draco just shook his head. He guessed it would cause some damage...

“My world is destroyed. The war left Wizarding Britain in ruins. There are so many people dead that we are threatened with extinction. Business broke down almost completely. Just to give you an example, the last broom that was developed was the Firebolt. Where I come from, it’s still the best, because the broom business was one of those that broke down. There’s no need for racing brooms in a war. And we didn’t have time to play Quidditch anyway, even if we could have done it without the risk of being killed.”

No Quidditch? It was something so mundane, Quidditch, that Draco had never thought about what would happen in a war with fun things like that. And destruction? Ruin? _Extinction_?

“Well, if no one had fought the Lord, that wouldn’t have happened, right?” Draco couldn’t help asking.

A black eyebrow rose, then a slight grin twitched at one corner of Harry’s mouth. “True, I guess. But do you really think everyone will just back down and let him take over? _I_ for one will not go down without a fight. Besides, Voldemort is a power-obsessed madman with ambitions of world domination. There’s no telling what he will do once he gets it.”

A madman? Harry called the Dark Lord a madman? Hell, didn’t that boy have one ounce of respect or fear for their Lord?

“So, since not fighting is out of the question, there will be war. And Voldemort will lose. The only question is at what price. You probably believe religiously in the superiority of purebloods?”

Draco blinked at the question, then nodded.

Harry looked at him strangely.

Obviously, he wasn’t surprised, but he looked kind of... sad. And pitiful, as if Draco believed in something stupid, like a child who wouldn’t listen to the reason of the grown-ups. He bristled. What was that guy thinking, looking at him like that?

“I’m sorry to inform you that you’ve fallen victim to some stupid propaganda that doesn’t contain an ounce of truth. Purebloods aren’t superior to Muggle-borns. Magical ability seems to be distributed very randomly. And the inbreeding in the pureblood families sure doesn’t help raise healthy and strong children. But you probably don’t want to hear this.”

He had that right, Draco thought angrily.

“Where I come from, though, there aren’t many purebloods left. The Malfoys, the Blacks, the Lestranges and the Longbottoms are extinct, the Weasleys are diminished down to four family members, as far as I know; oh, and officially the Potters are extinct, too, since your best friend and I apparently changed places, so they probably buried him as me. And those are only the ones I know of. Since I was dragged here directly after the final battle, I don’t know the final body count, but from what I saw of the battleground, it has to be high. It was littered with bodies.”

“The... the _Malfoys_?” Draco asked, shocked to hear his family name mentioned under “extinct”. “And the Blacks?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. I killed Lucius and Bellatrix, Sirius died a long time ago, and your equivalent died in the final battle, too. So... Oh, I forgot Narcissa. She would be the last Black, if she’s still alive, I guess...”

Apparently that guy knew his family pretty well. He talked as if he knew everyone personally. But then again, killing someone was kind of personal, wasn’t it? And he had killed _Lucius_? As in Lucius Malfoy, his father? Harry Potter killing Lucius Malfoy? Draco had serious trouble with that concept... After all, his best friend had been kind of adopted by Draco’s parents when he left his own home to join the Dark Lord. And in his own, frosty and distanced way, his father seemed to be quite fond of the Gryffindor.

And Aunt Bella... and Draco himself... all dead?

“Er... how did I die?” Okay, that sounded like a really strange question, but Draco was curious.

Harry gave him a very slight smirk.

“Hermione Granger killed you.”

Draco blinked. “Granger? As in the book-wormy Mudblood? _That_ Granger?” he asked incredulously.

Granger? Killing someone? How? By hitting them with a book?

“That would be the one. And don’t call her that.”

“But... but...” Draco was spluttering and he knew it.

Killed by a Mudblood? That shouldn’t even be possible! He was pureblooded, all the way back for at least a millennium, where would a Mudblood like Granger get the power to kill _him_? And that wasn’t even considering that she had to have the guts and the right mindset to cast a Killing Curse!

“Why?!” he demanded. “How?!”

Harry smirked broader at his distress. “You killed her fiancé. I can’t answer the ‘how’, I don’t know what spell she used, but it made a very impressive hole in you.”

Oh. So no Killing Curse. Well, he hadn’t really thought her capable of an Unforgivable. Still, dead was dead. And it still didn’t answer the power question. Perhaps Harry was right...? No, that couldn’t be, too much of his world-view and personality was based on it.

“And... you killed my father? And Aunt Bella?”

Harry’s smirk turned evil, an expression he knew very well. It was the one he usually got before he hexed someone who annoyed him. Or before he burnt down a building. Draco had noticed a certain tendency for arson in his best friend more than once.

“Oh, yes, I did. And I’m looking forward to doing it again.”

There was a harsh, unforgiving expression on his face as he said that last sentence. He hated them, Draco realized.

“Why do you hate them so much?”

Harry looked at him strangely as he asked that. “How do you know I hate them?” he asked.

“It was on your face,” Draco answered truthfully. “It’s the expression you get when you hate someone.”

Harry looked surprised. Then he gave a wry smile. “Seems as if there are _some_ things I share with my counterpart.” He cocked his head to one side, thinking. “Though I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not... But to answer your question, I don’t hate _them_. Lucius...” He shrugged. “Well, I guess I dislike him. Bella, though...” Again that fierce flash of hate crossed his face. “She’s one of the top three people on my hate list.” He considered that a second. “Scratch that. She _is_ the top of my hate list.”

“Why?” As far as Draco could remember, his best friend had always gotten along well with Bella. But then, his best friend had been a Death Eater, and this guy here seemed to have seriously sworn war upon them. It made Draco wonder why he went through the trouble to help _him_. Had they been friends in his world, too?

“She killed Sirius.”

Sirius? Oh, Black, his godfather, the one he couldn’t stand and had complained endlessly about... Obviously, their relationship in that other world had been quite different.

“But now that you’ve heard what it was like where I come from, would you consider staying neutral? The risks for yourself would be pretty small. Even if I _were_ to lose this time, you can still claim I kidnapped you and held you prisoner.” He shrugged. “If you’re convincing, Voldemort might believe you. It _is_ the truth after all.”

He had a point there. Yes, neutral did sound better and better...

“What if I don’t agree?”

Harry just looked at him for a few moments, then shrugged. “I probably should kill you, but I’d let you go. You haven’t really seen or heard anything secret after all...”

“Just like that?”

Harry nodded. “Just like that. But before you decide, there might be one more fact you should know.”

Draco looked at him questioningly.

“Who do you think is the most powerful wizard currently alive?” Harry asked with a slight smile.

There was some kind of trap behind that question, Draco knew it, but he couldn’t for the life of him see it. So he answered truthfully. “The Dark Lord.”

Harry’s smile became broader. “Voldemort, huh? Well, yes, I have to agree he’s one of the three most powerful wizards alive here. But according to your beliefs, all of them should be pureblooded, right?”

Was he including himself in those three wizards, Draco asked himself? Was this where the trap was?

“I guess so...” he agreed a bit hesitantly.

Harry grinned. “How sad only one of them is. And it certainly isn’t Voldemort.”

Draco blinked. Then he blinked again. Voldemort... not a pureblood?? No way! Of course he was pureblooded! He was the Heir of Slytherin, he spoke Parseltongue, he was so _fucking damn powerful_ ; and besides, as his father put it, he was their last hope of returning to the old ways, to the true, unpolluted Wizarding world, their last hope of preserving their culture and dignity!

“Of course he is!” slipped out of his mouth before he even realized it.

Harry smirked and shook his head. “Oh no, he isn’t. A half-blood is what good old Tom is. His mother, it’s true, was a witch, one of the last descendants of Slytherin, though pretty degenerated. His father was a Muggle.”

“That’s not true!” It couldn’t be true! If that was true... A half-blood fighting for the purity of wizards? That was just... just not right!

“It _is_ true. Research it if you want. Ask Dumbledore. Tom Riddle went to Hogwarts a little more than seventy years ago. He grew up in a Muggle orphanage, was named after his Muggle father by his mother who died shortly after his birth. Besides, I can show you how ‘Lord Voldemort’ was born...”

Harry slipped a slender, dark wand out of his left wrist sheath. It looked quite different from the one of his best friend, shorter and of a much darker wood.

“I’ll show you what he showed me when I was twelve years old.”

He turned slightly to the side and started writing in the air with his wand, leaving behind a string of fiery letters.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle” was hovering in the air.

“That,” Harry said, “is Voldemort’s complete real name. 'Tom' after his father, 'Marvolo' after his mother’s father.”

Marvolo... the name sounded vaguely familiar to Draco. He remembered some old family chart, where his father had proudly showed him how they were connected to the Slytherin line a dozen or so generations back, and there at the end of that line was this: Marvolo Gaunt, two children, a boy and girl, Draco couldn’t remember the names, something else with an M... It made what Harry was saying frightfully real.

Harry waved his wand at the letters in the air. They whirled and formed a new pattern. “I am Lord Voldemort” they said now.

Draco gaped. That couldn’t be true, right? That was so... so...

“Cute little trick, isn’t it?” Harry said, watching him closely. “Of course, kind of childish, too. But, well, he _was_ a teenager when he came up with it.”

Childish. Yes, that was the word. But it didn’t fit together with the Dark Lord he knew, that cold, powerful, impressive man he had bowed to on several occasions.

“So...” Draco’s voice sounded slightly weak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “So the Dark Lord isn’t pureblooded?”

Harry shook his head. “No, he is not. Ironically enough, I’m more pureblooded than he is. After all, at least both _my_ parents were magical. So you could consider me a first-generation pureblood, if you want to. If you follow your principles, then, you’d have to side with me...”

‘First generation pureblood’? Well, if you put it like that... he had a point there, Draco had to admit. He sighed. This was all kind of much to take in. He needed some time, he needed to think. But there was one more question he wanted answered.

“Why are you doing this?”

At Harry’s questioning look he elaborated, “Why are you going to all the trouble of kidnapping me? Were we friends in your world, too? But since you don’t like Death Eaters...? Was I on your side, then?”

At that, Harry gave a laugh, half amused, half bitter. “No, no, you weren’t on my side. A good little Death Eater was what you were.” His voice was as bitter as his laugh. “And we weren’t friends either.”

He shook his head and slumped in his chair. He ran a hand over his face and looked suddenly tired.

“It’s complicated. Frankly, I’m still having trouble with that ‘you-and-me-as-friends’ concept.”

“Then why help me?” Draco asked, bewildered.

Harry sighed, deeply. “To make a long story very short, I’ve got a crush on you. Or, rather, the alternate you.”

A crush? Had he just said ‘a crush’? Draco felt his face heat up ever so slightly and was thankful for the uncertain firelight.

“So you’re... gay?” he asked, his voice a bit higher than he would have liked.

Harry, gay? Did that mean his best friend had been, too...? And here Draco was, trying to hide that fact about himself as deeply as possible, hardly admitting it even to himself...

Harry, though, just shrugged. “Yeah, I am. So was your counterpart. Are you?” he asked, just like that!

Draco felt himself flush deeper. “Well... I guess...” he admitted reluctantly.

One black eyebrow rose. “You _guess_?” Harry’s voice indicated amusement and he seemed to suppress a grin.

“All right, all right, I _am_.” Draco growled, put out.

The grin stopped being suppressed. “Good,” was Harry’s distinct opinion.

Draco asked himself if he had just made a terrible mistake. “And because you’ve got a crush on the alternate me, you kidnapped me?”

Harry’s good mood vanished as quickly as it had come. “Basically, yes. I didn’t want to see _you_ die, too. Or even have to kill you myself this time.”

“Oh... Er, may I think about all that before I make a decision?”

Harry nodded. “Of course.” He stood up. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll send a house-elf down with something for you to eat.”

“Wait, you’re going to leave me in this cell?” Draco protested.

Harry raised an eyebrow at him, again. “Since I’m certainly not going to let a Death Eater run around here unrestrained, and since I don’t want to watch your every move, yes, I’m going to leave you in that cell. And don’t bother trying to get out, the bars are magically reinforced, and if you try anything on them, it’s going to trigger a silent alarm. And if you wake me in the middle of the night with an unsuccessful attempt at escaping, I’m going to be pissed off. And if it’s a successful attempt, you better be far away by the time I get here and well prepared when we meet next time, because then I’m going to be even more pissed off.”

“Er... all right,” Draco said, kind of shocked that Harry was talking to him in this way, but very aware that he was deadly serious.

Harry nodded and grabbed his cloak. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

And with that he swung his cloak around his shoulders and stalked out of the room, dimming the torches with a wave of his wand as he went. And taking Draco’s wand with him.

Then the door swung shut behind him, leaving Draco alone in his cell in the large dungeon room. After staring incredulously at the door for a few more moments, Draco returned to the small cot by the wall and plopped down on it.

***


	7. Chapter 7

A _pop_ several minutes later announced the arrival of the house-elf brandishing the promised food. Draco suddenly realized how hungry he was, having missed dinner for who knew how many hours, and got up. The house-elf was slowly approaching the cell, carrying a large tray laden with wonderfully smelling food. But as Draco stepped up to the bars, the house-elf stopped just out of reach. It looked nervously at Draco.

“Would Master please step back? Tinky was ordered to stay out of arm’s reach.” If house-elves could blush, it would probably have done so, it looked so uncomfortable.

“Ordered by whom?” Draco demanded.

“By Master Harry, sir,” the house-elf squeaked, appropriately distressed by his show of annoyance.

“I’m not going to do anything. Just give me my dinner.”

The house-elf looked close to tears. “Tinky is sorry, Master, but Tinky was specifically forbidden to follow any orders from Master.”

Draco frowned, then sighed and stepped back. He was hungry, Merlin be damned, and he didn’t want to fight with a house-elf over his food.

The house-elf waited, true to its orders, until he was securely out of reach before setting the tray on the floor and pushing it through a horizontal slit at the bottom of the bars, which had to be there for just that reason, Draco realized. Then it stepped back, bowed and vanished with another _pop_.

Draco knelt and retrieved his food, sitting down on his cot for lack of any other surface to sit on, and started to eat. He felt strange, though. Never before had he been treated like a prisoner. A potentially dangerous prisoner, no less. It seemed as if Harry wasn’t taking any chances. That was kind of admirable, but Draco would have preferred if it hadn’t been him on the receiving end of that caution.

***

Exhausted, Harry let himself fall on his bed. His exhaustion wasn’t so much physical as emotional. He hadn’t done anything but talk to Draco, but that had been hard enough. He had sent Draco his dinner and ordered something for himself as well. He stirred reluctantly to untie his boots and throw his cloak over a chair back. The house-elf appeared while he was undressing (at least as far as he was going to undress…). He thanked her and sat down on his bed to wolf down the food.

Tinky appeared shortly after he had started and reported, as he had ordered her to, that she had delivered Draco’s food, and recounted his reactions to Harry’s little security measures. Apparently, the blond wasn’t too thrilled with them, but seemed to take them in stride.

Frankly, Harry was surprised. This variation of Draco Malfoy seemed to be rather more peaceful than the one he had known. “His” Malfoy would have cursed, hissed and generally thrown a fit. But perhaps this change in character had something to do with the fact that the other Harry had been friends with him. Harry guessed that cut him some slack as well.

He finished his dinner, sent the dishes back to the kitchens and fell face down on his bed. He was asleep in a matter of minutes.

_He was standing on the battle field again. This time there were no corpses, but upturned earth and muddy puddles were disrupting the thin snow-cover just like before. A faint grey mist was hovering over the ground in thin woolly strands. Harry couldn’t see anything beyond the desolate stretch of land that had served as their battle ground. He was vaguely aware that he should be able to see the drop of land towards the lake, or the dark line of the Forbidden Forest or the looming walls of Hogwarts, but there was no point of orientation for him to get his bearings in this dream._

_“Miss me?” a voice asked from behind him, and he whirled, automatically going for his wand, whipping it from it’s sheath as he turned, noting absently that he was wearing full battle gear._

_There he stood, tall, pale face and hair gleaming against the darkness of his black battle robes even in the grey early morning light. Arms crossed over his chest, left hand twirling his wand by the handle, superior smirk in place, looking down at Harry even from across the distance._

_Harry felt as if his heart had skipped a beat, and his breath with it._

_He realized he_ had _missed him. Missed that throaty, purring, condescending drawl, that smirking line of his lips, that way he tilted his head whilst looking down at him…_

 _The Draco Malfoy he had met today hadn’t done any of that, hadn’t been this arrogant, hadn’t known him that well, hadn’t been this_ familiar _…_

 _It was almost too easy to fall back on the old patterns. Harry felt his chin tilt up in answer to the unspoken challenge in Draco’s posture, his lips curling in a smirk of his own. Which had to mirror Draco’s very closely, he suddenly realized. Where_ had _he picked up that particular expression, anyway?_

_“Malfoy.” His voice carried all the usual distaste. “Miss you? In your dreams.”_

_“Actually,” Draco studied the tips of his polished boots peaking out from under the hem of his robes for a moment with faked casualness, before looking back up and smirking at Harry again, “it’s_ your _dream.”_

_Harry blinked once, slowly. That… wasn’t the answer he’d expected in a dream. “What do you mean, it’s my dream?” he asked suspiciously. Draco shrugged, with careful nonchalance._

_“I’m dead. I don’t dream.” He smirked again. “That would imply I slept, which, seeing as I’m dead, I don’t do either. Or is that too hard to comprehend for your little Gryffindor brain?”_

__Okay _. Harry got the distinct feeling that something_ was not right here _. “Okay, Malfoy,” he said slowly, “unpleasant as it is to exchange witless insults with you again, I’d really like to know what’s going on here.”_

_The smirk turned into the condescending smile Harry knew equally well._

_“Oh, come now,_ Potter _.”_

 _The way Draco said his name, the way_ only _Draco said it, made a shiver run down Harry’s back and things low in his belly tighten. Damn that man for the influence he had over him._

_“I’m sure you are as delighted to see me again as I am. Delighted to see you again, that is.”_

_Draco took a gliding step closer and was suddenly standing right in front of Harry, grey eyes boring into his, gaze heated and intense._

_“Don’t play hard to get,_ Harry _.”_

_His name, spoken in that sexy, purring drawl, nearly made him moan out loud. Draco unfolded his arms and reached up with his right as if to cup Harry’s cheek, his left, with the wand hanging by his side, forgotten._

_Harry knew his eyes were very wide, his breath coming fast, his eyes glued to Draco’s. “What’s going on?” he whispered._

_This was no ordinary dream, he was sure of that. And he had the feeling he should get out as quickly as possible._ It’s a dream _, he told himself._ Wake up, old boy, come on, wake up _._

_As soon as he tried, he felt the dream fade._

_Draco’s eyes flashed silver with anger, his fingertips were just a breath away from touching Harry’s face. But Harry had practice in closing his mind, and this didn’t seem much different from getting out of one of his visions. The black and white started to fade to grey, Draco becoming more and more insubstantial and farther away, swallowed by the rising greyness. In one last attempt to grab Harry his hand lashed out, reaching to grab his arm, but he missed and Harry was racing towards the far away surface of the dream._

_“Don’t think I’ll let you off that easily, Potter!” he heard Draco yell angrily,_ then his eyes snapped open, and he sat straight up in his bed, panting heavily and with a raging hard-on.

What in all nine hells had _that_ been?!

***

Groggily, Harry entered the Great Hall for breakfast.

It had taken him hours to go back to sleep after that “dream”, and his sleep, when it had come, had been troubled with confused nightmares.

He plopped down at the table and, first of all, conjured himself a mug of very strong coffee.

He had even overslept his usual training time. For years now he’d gotten up at seven o’clock in the morning, winter and summer, seven days a week, and started the day with his training routine. It was so much part of his day that he felt slightly off-centre whenever he missed it.

“Good morning,” someone greeted friendlily from his left.

Tiredly, he blinked up from his coffee cup. It was Lily, who smiled at him. He had to smile back, even if it was a bit weak.

“Morning.”

“You look a bit tired,” Lily observed.

Harry smiled a little wider.

“I… didn’t sleep well.” Unconsciously, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth the dishevelled strands down into some kind of order.

***

It was still very strange to have this Harry around, Lily thought as she watched him make that gesture that she knew so very well from James. Only James used it to mess his hair up, not smooth it down. It was kind of ironic that this Harry apparently had the messy look James was always aiming for naturally. And he used almost the same gesture, emphasizing how much they looked alike, to achieve the opposite…

At his admission that he hadn’t slept well, her motherly instincts immediately activated. She looked at him concernedly.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

He looked up, surprised. Seeing her concerned face, he immediately smiled again. It was the same smile she had loved so much seeing on her son, only it seemed to come much more easily, if the slight lines around his mouth were any indication.

“Oh, sure, I am. Just need to wake up a bit.”

Just then, James entered the Hall as well. He saw them, smiled and came over. Lily noted how Harry’s face grew just a touch more distanced as James approached, while she couldn’t help smiling at seeing her husband, who had had some kind of meeting with Dumbledore before breakfast.

He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and Harry with a slightly cautious but friendly “Good morning, Harry.”

***

Harry nodded a greeting to James. He didn’t quite know how to act around the man. When he had first heard of his parents, everyone had been telling him how wonderful they were and he had believed it readily enough. Then he’d found out about how James and Sirius had bullied Severus during their school-time and for some time his pride and admiration for the people he imagined his parents to be had turned to rejection and hate. After a while, however, his feelings had gotten back in perspective, and he’d accepted that his parents were just as human as everyone else and that they, like everyone else, had their good and their bad sides.

Although, in his view, there was no excuse for bullying people, since he had been a victim himself too many times. But he thought he could give this James a chance.

And he had to admit, he was curious about these people. He turned to Lily.

“I’ve been meaning to ask for a while, what’s going on with the school? Is Hogwarts closed because of the war?”

Lily looked surprised, then she laughed silently.

“No, no, we’re not closed! It’s the Easter Holidays! The students will be back in full force next week.”

“There has been some discussion of closing,” James joined the conversation, “but it was decided to carry on with additional Auror presence for the students’ protection. And since we managed to throw back the attack four days ago, it might seem that Hogwarts is currently safer than most places in the country.”

Harry nodded.

“Well, there’s nearly no place better warded than Hogwarts. As long as there’s no leak inside, that is. But with a whole bunch of school kids running around, that’s going to be difficult to determine…”

“The kids?” Lily asked, astonished. “I don’t think they would be any danger. They are, after all, just kids.”

At that, Harry gave her a look that could have come from Snape, saying, quite clearly, that he thought that to be a pretty stupid thing to say. “Please, if there _are_ Death Eater children among them, all they have to do would be to follow the orders of their parents. And don’t underestimate children. If Voldemort hadn’t underestimated me, I’d be dead today and he would be on his way to world-domination. My friends and me took on a Mountain Troll when we were eleven, I killed a basilisk when I was twelve, banished about a hundred Dementors when I was thirteen, faced a dragon and escaped a pissed off, newly-resurrected Dark Lord at fourteen, then faced off with half a dozen Death Eaters with a group of friends, who all were around fourteen or fifteen. By the time I was sixteen, I was in Auror training, by the time I was seventeen I was better than your average Auror. So please don’t tell me they are ‘just kids’.”

Lily gaped at him, and she saw that James looked stunned, too.

“A dragon? A basilisk? A troll?” she asked disbelievingly. “Where did you find all _those_?!”

Harry blinked.

“Well… right here, in Hogwarts. And those actually were just some examples… I didn’t mention the Acromantulas, or the three-headed dog, or the other run-ins with Voldemort…”

“You seem to have led a very interesting life…” James remarked a bit weakly.

Harry looked at him perplexedly, then a grin twitched at his mouth.

“Oh yes, I think you can say that. Now, what are you doing here? If school’s going to open again next week, I guess this isn’t HQ for the Order, then?”

“Uh…” Lily wasn’t quite sure how much to reveal to Harry. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, but they hadn’t even known him for a week… But then again, he had already concluded the answer for himself. “No, it’s not. We’re actually teachers here.”

Harry looked surprised. “You teach? What?”

Lily had to smile. “Yes, we teach. My subject is Charms, and James is the Flying Instructor.”

“Oh…” Then his face lit up. “That reminds me that I still have a broom to try out! D’you think it would be a problem if I occupied the Pitch for a bit?”

James blinked. “You fly?”

Now Harry blinked. “Of course I do.” Then he seemed to consider that. “Didn’t your son fly?”

It was Lily who answered. “No, he got bored with flying around the age of five…”

“Bored with flying?” Harry asked completely incredulous. “How can anyone be _bored_ with flying? I understand if people are scared of flying, but bored…?”

James sighed. “Yeah, it was a pity… I think he really had talent. He probably could have made the Quidditch team… Hey, did you ever play Quidditch?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, I did. Back when we could still play Quidditch, that is, without being killed.”

“Killed?” James asked.

Harry shrugged. “You make a pretty target of yourself, flying. No cover, you know. And you never know who’s sitting in the stands during a match. It was just too risky.”

“I see. Which position did you play?”

Lily had to grin as the two got more and more enthusiastic talking about Quidditch. _Men…_ she thought with a little mental snort.

“Seeker. You were a Chaser when you were still at Hogwarts, right? Or at least, in my world you were.”

James looked a bit astonished. “Oh yes, I was. And a pretty good one, if I might say so,” he grinned.

A calculating look entered Harry’s eyes. “Yes, that’s what everybody’s been telling me. Fancy a little bit of flying? I’d really like to see for myself…”

James considered that for a moment, then his grin widened. “Sure, why not? Meet you on the Pitch in fifteen minutes?”

“All right,” Harry agreed.

Then he stood up, nodded at them and left, presumably to get his broom.

Lily noted a slight spring to his step that hadn’t been there before. Actually, he’d seemed livelier in these past few minutes than she’d ever seen him before. Even though he was confident and friendly most of the time, she realized that there was always some kind of tension in him, some kind of holding back. This was the first time she had caught a glimpse of the young, carefree man he could be. But she had a suspicion that he’d seen and done too much in his short life already to ever truly be that carefree and easy-going on a regular basis.

***

Draco woke early in the morning, or at least he thought it must be early in the morning. With no windows and no clock or wand or any other means to determine the time, that was a bit hard to ascertain. But if the chill that had woken him was anything to go by it probably was early in the morning. At least he hoped so, because if it wasn’t, it would get even colder down here and he really didn’t fancy catching a cold in this dratted dungeon.

 _Damn you, Harry_ , he grumbled to himself, _if I get my hands on you…_

Well, he would do... _what_?, a little voice in the back of his head piped up. After all, if yesterday had been any indication, he had no control what so ever over this new Harry. It was disconcerting. The old Harry had been some kind of cross between best friend and little brother to him. Even if he was cheeky and disrespectful most of the time, did whatever pleased him at the moment and had no regard whatsoever for rules, there had never been any question about him challenging Draco’s authority if Draco was serious about it. In fact, Draco was about the only person he listened to and who could keep him even remotely in line. If Draco said, “Don’t do that”, then he didn’t do it. Oh, he’d whine and pout and complain in hopes of convincing Draco to change his mind but if Draco remained firm, Harry would back down.

Draco had taken that for granted, had never really thought about it before now. It had somehow just established itself like that, what with Harry being one year below him and not completely pure-blooded, and although the Potters were respected and by no means poor, they didn’t have quite the status and wealth Draco had to his name. So Harry had looked to Draco for guidance from the beginning, and Draco realized it was one of the things that had intrigued him about the Gryffindor. Of course he was just plain fun to be around, too. He’d pull pranks and annoy people, and Draco would just lean back, keep in the background and grin at the results.

Draco sighed. But those times were over, and Harry was dead. Just like that.

And that new Harry was nothing like him in that respect. He’d behaved like an equal, like he expected Draco to treat him on completely even ground, yes he’d even acted slightly superior to Draco! Well, given their positions right now, it was certainly Harry who had the power at the moment, what with Draco sitting in this cell without his wand and all…

Which brought him to the decision he was about to make. Or rather, had subconsciously already made, but was scared as hell to admit to himself. But if he considered all the facts…

The thought of betraying the Dark Lord scared the shit out of him, but actually his chances of survival were better if he chose Harry now and that turned out to be the wrong choice, than if he chose Voldemort and lost. Because Harry would kill him if he was on the losing side in this war. Perhaps not as cold-blooded or even gleefully as the Dark Lord would, but equally effectively.

If he chose Harry and lost, he could always do what Harry had suggested and claim innocence, because he’d been kidnapped. It was the truth. If Voldemort would be satisfied by it was another question, but _Harry_ wouldn’t even ask for reasons. If Draco declined now, he knew, then things would be settled as far as Harry was concerned.

And while all this reasoning was nice and logical, Draco had to admit, at least to himself, that the decision was a much more sentimental one. He wanted Harry back. And while he knew that he wouldn’t get his best friend back, that treacherous little voice in his head suggested that the new Harry was even more interesting than his best friend had been. He seemed to have a much more… intricate personality. He was stronger, had an air of authority, of power around him like no one Draco had met up to now, he was so… grown-up. And sexy.

Grudgingly Draco admitted to himself that this little detail _did_ play a part in his considerations. That guy was just plain _hot_. And, as he’d said himself, interested in Draco.

Draco had never thought about his best friend like that, not seriously. Oh, he had looked, and noted that his best friend _was_ a good enough looking guy, but that had been as far as it went. He felt too much like an older brother towards Harry to consider any kind of sexual or romantic relationship with him. It would feel slightly like incest.

But this new Harry… Well, that was a completely different thing. Draco certainly hadn’t developed any brotherly feelings towards him in the few minutes he’d seen him. He hadn’t developed many feelings at all, but he had to admit he was definitely interested. And curious. That guy just had something… fascinating. He was a riddle waiting to be solved, so much like his best friend sometimes, so completely different at others.

He had just consciously acknowledged his decision (and he prayed to every god he knew that Harry didn’t promise too much when he said he’d kill Voldemort. He hadn’t even really seen him fight! Perhaps he should ask for a demonstration of his skills before he took a definite decision? Yes, that sounded good…) when the house-elf from the evening before _pop_ ped in with his breakfast. Before it could vanish again, Draco asked it to tell Harry that he wanted to see him. The house-elf nodded and _pop_ ped back out while Draco retrieved his breakfast gratefully.

***


	8. Chapter 8

Lily had accompanied James out onto the Pitch, curious to see Harry fly as well. Though she didn’t fly herself, her husband and their friends were obsessed enough with Quidditch that she was generally up to date with any important news about games and brooms, and James even said that she had a pretty good eye at spotting promising players. She wasn’t so sure about that, herself, because she’d never actively played, but if she offered an opinion about somebody’s flying abilities, James listened to her.

So there she was, standing on the grass which still had that bright green of the first blades of spring, waiting with James for Harry to arrive. Just in time she could see Harry’s slender, dark silhouette descend the front steps of the castle, broom over his shoulder.

In a few minutes he had reached them, marching along with wide, ground-eating steps. Something about that purposeful, efficient stride seemed naggingly familiar to Lily. It wasn’t something she knew from James, though. James’ walk was much more… bouncy, for lack of a better word. When James was in his usual good mood- one of the things she loved about him- he could barely refrain from running around like a first year. But that determined stride of Harry’s, almost a soldier’s march which sent his robes flapping out behind him, reminded her of someone else… But before she could complete the thought, Harry reached them.

With a slight, relaxed grin on his face, he took the broom off of his shoulders. James gave an appreciative whistle.

“Merlin, isn’t that…?”

The grin on Harry’s face broadened, and he proudly presented the broom.

“Yepp. A Silverflash 03, the fastest thing on the market, or so I’ve been told. Isn’t it beautiful?” His fingers caressed the handle, gleaming with dark-metallic-grey polish, almost lovingly.

“Wow. I’ve never seen one outside of a shop display or a picture… Krum flies one.” James reached out a hand and rested his fingertips reverentially on the wood.

Lily had to suppress a grin. Men and brooms… From the way they acted, you would think they were in love with those bits of enchanted wood and polish. It was sort of cute, actually. Not that she’d ever say that out loud where the boys could hear her.

At the mention of Krum, Harry perked up. “Victor Krum? Does he still fly for Bulgaria?”

“You know Krum?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I saw the Quidditch World Cup game - Bulgaria vs. Ireland - when I was in fourth year. Arthur had managed to get tickets for the whole family and they invited me along.”

His eyes got a distant look and he smiled slightly, obviously remembering happy memories. Then his face fell.

“Of course, that was also the occasion where I first saw a little ‘Death Eater fun’ and the Dark Mark for real… But Krum was a good guy. I got to know him a bit when he was at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament the same year.”

Lily blinked. Harry knew a world-famous Quidditch star _personally_? Obviously, James was thinking along the same lines.

“You’ve met Krum?”

“Er… yes?” Harry seemed a bit perplexed. “He was at Hogwarts for a few months, because of the Tournament. And since we were both champions, we met.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hermione went to the Yule ball with him, and Ron was _so_ jealous…”

Victor Krum, renowned as the world’s best Seeker, went to a ball with the rather nondescript Hermione Granger? The girl that only seemed to live to study and follow every school rule ever invented? And Harry had been a champion in the famous Triwizard Tournament? This boy _had_ led an interesting life…

James was shaking his head.

“There really seems to be a lot of differences between our worlds… But Krum is playing for Bulgaria here, too.”

Harry nodded. “That’s good. Then let’s hope he will be doing that for a few more years. It would be a shame if he was killed here, too.”

“What happened?” asked James at once.

Harry shrugged. “As I said, Krum was a good guy. He might have been in Durmstrang, but when the war started, he distanced himself quite firmly from Voldemort and the Death Eaters. After all, he was still friends with Hermione; they wrote to each other regularly. And since he was a very public figure, Voldemort made an example of him. Someone sabotaged his broom, we never found out for sure who it was--” though they suspected a certain blond Slytherin rather heavily, but Harry thought it better not to mention that, “--and during the World Cup finale in Paris he lost control of the broom during one of his famous Wronski Feints…” Harry grimaced. “I wasn’t there, but the results couldn’t have been pretty… It was one of Voldemort’s first really public strikes.”

James and Lily were both a bit pale.

“Oh my god,” Lily said.

She didn’t even want to imagine what it must feel like to sit on a broom during one of those crazy dives and then notice that you had no control any more, and see the ground coming rushing towards you…

Harry waved a hand. “Enough with my gruesome war stories, we’re here to have a bit of fun. Besides, that’s the sort of thing I’m hoping to prevent here.” He grinned at James. “So, let’s fly. How are we going to play?”

“Well--” James gave Harry’s broom another look, “--if you can fly that thing, I refuse flat out racing. My old Firebolt 2 wouldn’t stand a chance…”

Harry shrugged. “I think I can fly it, but I haven’t sat on a broom for at least a year, and the one I’ve had before was a Firebolt. So you have a bit of an advantage until I get used to this one…”

Lily looked sceptically first at the sparkling handle, then at Harry. “Are you sure you can fly that broom? I’ve heard it’s really difficult.”

Another grin spread across Harry’s face and his eyes flashed excitedly.

“Only one way to find out.” He rested a hand on the wood.

Lily nearly groaned. _That_ was exactly the reaction she would have expected from James. She didn’t know if it was being a male Gryffindor, or just something James and his friends did, but give them a challenge, and they would do the most stupid things. She really hoped her comment just now wouldn’t make Harry think he had to show off in front of her and do something especially stupid. If it had been James, she was sure he would have…

James, though, looked at Harry with an appreciative glance. Great. Male Gryffindor bonding. Harry had just earned a few points of respect from her husband. James nodded, mostly to himself, and reached into his pocket.

“How about this?” He held up a small golden ball. “Let’s compete for the Snitch. That should give us plenty of opportunity to compare flying skills.” He grinned.

Harry shrugged. “Fine with me. After all, _I_ am a Seeker and have never played in any other position. But won’t that give me another advantage?”

Now it was James’ turn to shrug.

“When I got on the team, they dearly needed a good Chaser, but I could have played Seeker, as well. But they decided to keep Anthony, since he had more experience, and I became a Chaser. But I’ve played Seeker outside of the team before, so I think I’ll be all right. And of course, before you can catch the Snitch you’ll have to manage to fly that broom.”

He smirked.

One of Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I will. Let’s get going then.”

James nodded and opened his hand. The Snitch shivered, then it unfurled its wings, and the next moment it took off and was gone. Harry and James shared a nod, mounted their brooms and kicked off. Lily watched them climb into the air for a moment, then she went to the stands to sit down.

When she was comfortable on one of the benches high over the Pitch, she looked for the two men. James was zig-zagging merrily over the Pitch, while Harry was flying cautiously in a wide circle. Lily approved. He didn’t know his broom, after all, and was out of practice, too.

A sharp gust of wind blew over the Pitch, whistling in the empty stands and swirling Harry’s cloak around his broom. He lurched a bit in the air.

James wasn’t fazed much by the wind, since he was wearing more close-fitting robes. He stopped his random shooting around the Pitch and started to circle Harry at a bit of a distance. Harry gave him a short look and then ignored him in favour of scanning the stands. When his eyes met Lily’s over the expanse of the Pitch, he abandoned his lazy circle around the field and made straight for her.

Carefully, he brought the broom to a halt in front of her questioning eyes and, hovering there, he let go of the handle with both hands. Using only his legs to stabilize him, he quickly unclasped his cloak. Lily was just hoping that there wouldn’t be another gust of wind at that moment.

But there wasn’t, and Harry threw the cloak over the bench next to her with a grin.

“Keep that safe for me, all right? I just hope no one’s going to try to curse me right now!” he shouted.

Then he gripped his broom handle securely with both hands again. “That’s better. Here we go!”

And with that he whipped the broom around, all traces of caution gone and shot off across the Pitch. And that was just the beginning.

He gathered speed, swerved a slalom around the stands at the other side, came out of it in a wide curve that put him behind the goal hoops, gathered a bit of height and shot right through the middle loop, lying flat over his broom. Then he accelerated once more and raced along the length of the Pitch, not much more than a black blur in the air. Without slowing down he whipped through the loop at the other end, while Lily had horrible visions of his broken body on the ground flashing before her eyes. If he so much as touched the loop at that speed…!

He didn’t seem much concerned about that, however, because he flew a narrow turn, much narrower than Lily would have thought possible at his current speed, turned his broom handle upwards and shot up, higher and higher. He certainly wasn’t afraid of heights, it seemed.

Lily looked for James and saw him sitting on his broom, hovering, positively slack-jawed with astonishment. Lily had to agree.

Harry flew with amazing grace and precision, at a speed that outclassed the possibilities of James’ Firebolt by far. And he made it look easy.

Then James gathered himself, gained a bit of height, too, and started to circle the field, looking for the Snitch in earnest. Harry was still hovering, like a hawk on his high perch, a dark splotch against the uniformly grey, overcast sky.

James had nearly reached the spot where Lily sat in the stands in his circling when there was a rushing sound. Looking up, they both saw Harry coming down, nose first, in a perfectly vertical dive. James hastily started scanning the ground, searching for the glimmer of gold that Harry might have spotted. With a backwash of air that slapped their faces, he shot past them, a dark blur of speed, headed for the green below. Lily heard James curse, then he, too, dipped the nose of his broom down and went in a dive.

Lily watched with bated breath and a fearfully beating heart. It would only take them seconds to reach the ground, but it felt like time crawled by as they both headed down.

 _Pull up, pull up_ , Lily chanted in her head. Surely, considering the speed at which they were both going, they had to pull up, or at least slow down, any moment now, or it would be too late and they would crash.

But they held their downwards course far longer than Lily thought safe, then, only meters from the grass, James pulled up with some effort. But Harry didn’t.

Had he lost control? Oh, Merlin, what was that crazy boy doing??

And then, just as Lily was sure that it was all too late, that he would be lying broken on the grass, he flipped his broom horizontal again, effortlessly, swerving in great arching curves only a breath over the tips of the grass blades to lose momentum, still at break-neck speed, but obviously in complete control.

In no time at all he reached the end of the Pitch, circled a goal hoop pole and shot off upwards again. James was still hovering half way up the stands, blinking perplexedly. Lily took a deep breath, only now realizing that she’d forgotten to breathe some way through this crazy manoeuvre.

A feint. A goddamn Wronski Feint, and the most spectacular one she’d ever seen.

The boy was good. He was better than good.

James shot past her, recovered from his astonishment, and, if she knew her husband at all, more bent on catching that Snitch than ever.

Both of them started circling, staying close to each other in case one of them spotted the Snitch. As they flew by her at moderate speed, Lily noted the suspicious glances Harry was giving James, and how he always kept some distance between them. James however, refused to be distracted and scanned the Pitch below and the air around them.

Some minutes went by quietly. Suddenly, James shot off towards the opposite goal hoops, nearly three-quarters of the Pitch away. Lily noted that Harry didn’t follow immediately, though he turned, too, but scanned the surroundings hastily. Lily thought she heard a muttered “Fuck!” as he spotted the golden glimmer that had caught James’ eye, circling idly on the spot halfway between the hoops and the middle of the field. Harry was off in the blink of an eye, speeding after James, and the chase was on.

As if noticing it had been spotted, the Snitch ceased its circling and flitted off towards the goal hoops.

Harry quickly gained on James, his superior broom giving him an edge in the straight race. But then the Snitch started drunkenly zipping to and fro, as Snitches were wont to do, and now it would show if Harry had the skill to use the dexterity and speed of his broom to full advantage. Lily rather suspected that he did.

And, indeed, Harry quickly overtook James, paying him no heed now, eyes only for the Snitch before him. He followed it, always keeping as straight a line between himself and the little golden ball as he could, following into dives and breath-taking swerves with an ease that made it look as if he and his broom had grown together to become one single unit, changing course at a thought, nearly as nimble as the Snitch itself.

Up and down across the Pitch the chase went, sometimes high up, sometimes close to the ground. James tried to follow for a while, but eventually he came to hover beside Lily and watch Harry fly, who didn’t even seem to notice that his opponent had given up, so intent was he on the little ball in front of him.

They watched in silence as Harry chased the Snitch, coming ever closer. It was clear that the ball was no match for the Seeker behind it. Finally it went into a steep dive to zigzag along close to the ground. Harry dove behind it and plucked it right out of the air as if it was standing still and he not sitting on a broom speeding towards the earth at break-neck speed.

Triumphantly he waved the fist with the Snitch in it and looked around. Only then did he seem to realize that James was no longer after him. With a puzzled expression he flew over to them.

“Hey! Where’d you get to?”

James laughed and held his hands up in surrender.

“I was outclassed. _Way_ outclassed. You’re amazing,” he finished earnestly.

“Er…”

Lily wasn’t sure if it was the flying or if Harry was actually blushing, but he did seem slightly embarrassed by the compliment.

“Well, I have a great broom. And you weren’t bad, either.”

James grinned.

“Thanks. But, honestly, I probably couldn’t fly that broom, certainly not without a lot more practice than you had. I think you’re even better than Krum!” This time Lily was sure Harry blushed.

“Thank you. I don’t know; I never flew against Krum. But if it hadn’t been for the war I certainly could have gone professional, that’s true. Youngest Seeker in a century and all that.” He grinned.

“Youngest Seeker in a century?” James asked.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I got on the team when I was in first year.”

He grinned at a memory, then he looked at Lily. “Could you give me my cloak, please?”

She held it up and he took it as if he was standing on firm ground, not hovering on a thin broom stick over a dozen metres from the ground.

“Actually, I have to thank Draco Malfoy for that,” he continued while fastening his cloak around his shoulders again.

“We had our first flying lesson, and Neville managed to lose control of his broom and fell and broke his wrist. So Madam Hooch, that was our Flying Instructor,” he added to James, “took him to the Infirmary. We were told to stay on the ground, of course. I think her words were ‘You leave these brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’.’ But, of course, as soon as she was out of sight, Malfoy, being the git he is, started to make trouble. He laughed about Neville, and then he noticed that Neville had lost his Remembrall his grandmother had sent him, and said he’d leave it in a tree for Neville to find. He challenged me to come and get it. I was pretty angry by that time, of course, and jumped on a broom myself, reckless Gryffindor that I am.” He grinned.

“After all, I’d never flown on a broom before. Hermione was trying to keep me back, but I was too angry to listen to her. Well, I found flying quite easy.” A grim little smile curled one corner of his mouth.

“Malfoy seemed to get a bit worried, all alone up there, so he threw the Remembrall away and got back to the ground. I didn’t even think, I just dove after it and caught it. The next moment, McGonagall was there, bearing down at me.”

He gave a rueful smile.

“I thought I’d be expelled for sure, sent back to the Dursleys. I was already speculating if they’d let me stay on as Hagrid’s apprentice, when we reached the Defense classroom and she called Oliver Wood out. He was the Quidditch Captain. A few minutes later I was the new Gryffindor Seeker, and they debated what broom to get me. A week later, I was proud owner of a Nimbus 2000 and had my first ever introduction to Quidditch. Malfoy was positively frothing at the mouth with envy…”

The last was said almost dreamily. Obviously, the notion still pleased Harry greatly.

James shook his head in consternation, but a grin was twitching on his lips. “I can imagine. You really weren’t friends with the Malfoy child, were you?”

Harry blinked at him perplexedly. “Of course I wasn’t!” he said, sounding disgusted by the mere idea. “He was such a horrible little brat!”

James sighed and shrugged. “Well, that didn’t seem to faze our son much. As far as I know he was all but adopted into the family after he ran away from home.”

Harry’s brow creased in a troubled frown. “Adopted into Malfoy’s family? Oh God, that’s a scary thought.” He shuddered. “Almost every time I met old Lucius he tried to kill me!”

James’ eyebrows rose. “Lucius Malfoy tried to kill you? How come you’re still alive?” he asked, only half jokingly.

“Well…” Harry raised one eyebrow, “...a combination of skill and pure dumb luck, I’d say. Though there are those people who would claim I didn’t have any of the former and a ridiculous amount of the latter.”

His lips twitched in a grin, as if a disparaging remark like that would trigger fond memories. Lily thought it a bit strange that he could have fond memories of people saying such things to him. James, obviously thinking the same thing, raised his eyebrows, looking slightly at a loss what to make of that.

“Uh huh…” Then he shrugged it off. “I think we should get back to the castle now.”

Harry and Lily nodded and the boys flew their broomsticks down to the ground, where they waited until Lily got down from the stands as well and then they made their way back to Hogwarts together, Harry and James making light conversation about brooms and the state of the Quidditch league.

***

They had barely entered the Entrance Hall when a house-elf popped up in front of Harry.

“Master Harry, Sir?” it squeaked anxiously.

Lily saw Harry smile down at the little creature.

“Yes, Tinky?”

“Master Draco said he wished to see you when I brought him his breakfast, Sir,” the house-elf answered, huge ears poking up and quivering with excitement at Harry’s friendly tone.

Lily wondered how he knew what the house-elf was called. She herself had always trouble telling them apart from each other.

“Oh. Thank you, Tinky, I’ll be there shortly,” Harry answered, still smiling. “Er, could you get my broom up into my room, please?”

James and Lily looked at him, astonished. Had he just thanked a house-elf? The house-elf in question looked about ready to burst with happiness and nodded vigorously.

“Yes! Master Harry just call Tinky whenever he needs anything! Tinky will be happy to serve good Master Harry as well as she can!” With that, the house-elf popped out again with the broom.

Harry blinked, then shrugged.

“Well, sounds like I better go.” He turned to them. “Bye then. It was fun flying.” He grinned, turned, and strode towards the dungeons purposefully.

Lily and James looked at each other, both astonished by that unconventional way to deal with house-elves. Lily rather suspected her son had treated them a lot differently.

***

Draco had been pacing impatiently in the confines of his cell when he finally heard the sound of footsteps in front of the door. He nearly sighed with relief when the door opened and Harry stepped into the room. It had felt like an eternity since he had sent that blasted house-elf off to deliver his message. There really was nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to occupy himself with in this damn cell that was quickly starting to feel claustrophobic. He wanted out of there.

He’d never been imprisoned in his life; the worst he had to compare this to were the last three months in the training camp. But there he’d had Harry around, and he could be the patient and sensible one while Harry ranted at not being able to leave the house whenever the mood took him.

It was weird thinking about Harry, his best friend, now. It felt surreal somehow, that the guy currently crossing the cavernous dungeon room from the door to his cell was an alternate version of the one he had known – the same, but different, so very different. Weird.

Shaking himself slightly, he focused back on what he would say to this Harry. He had stopped his pacing as soon as the door opened and now stood close to the bars, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and watched Harry advance. He couldn’t help but admire the other man’s form. He strode through the room confidently, boot heels echoing on the stone floor and cloak flowing around him. Every step spoke of strength and determination, and he moved with a flowing grace that made Draco think of some large predator. The house-elf had lit the fire and the torches before it left, and the light cast stark shadows on Harry’s form, outlining the muscles under his close-fitting Muggle shirt. Much too soon, in Draco’s opinion, Harry had crossed the room and was standing in front of the bars. Out of arm’s reach, of course.

“Tinky said you wanted to see me?” Harry queried. _Tinky?_ Draco blinked.

“The house-elf,” Harry explained just as Draco reached the same conclusion. He nodded, trying to look like he had known that, of course. Honestly, who bothered to learn the names of _house-elves_? Well, this Harry, it seemed.

“Yes. I have considered your proposal,” he stated with as much dignity as he could muster. Harry arched one eyebrow at him and one corner of his lips twitched, so Draco doubted it had been much dignity. Damn, this Harry Potter made him feel as if he was still a child or something. Definitely the younger one of them, not the one in charge as he was used to being. Harry didn’t ask anything after Draco’s statement, just waited for him to continue, thus putting himself into the stronger position in the conversation. Not at all like the Harry he knew, who never had had the patience for subtle power play.

“I...” Draco faltered and had to swallow hard before he was able to continue and force the words out of his mouth, “I decided to accept your offer.” There, he’d said it, and he could see the beginnings of a delighted smile on Harry’s face. Before it could fully bloom and throw him off course, he added hurriedly, “Under one condition.” The smile faltered, and a crease appeared between Harry’s eyebrows.

“Which would be?” he asked slowly.

“I want to see you fight,” Draco said as firmly as he could. He wasn’t really in any position to make demands, after all. “I want to know if you can actually back up your promises. I want to know where I put my faith.” The unhappy expression had left Harry’s face with his first words and had been replaced by surprise.

“Oh,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Sure, no problem. Quite reasonable in fact. Do you want me to duel someone specific? Or some other demonstration?”

Draco blinked. He hadn’t thought quite that far ahead. He was a bit surprised that Harry had agreed so readily. His best friend would most probably have been insulted at the implication that Draco didn’t trust him to pull off what he promised.

“Er... no, a duel would be all right. As to whom... I don’t know.” Draco tried to think of someone he knew to be a good duellist who would be available for Potter.

“I could ask Dumbledore,” Harry suggested offhandedly. Draco gaped. Had he heard correctly? Had Harry just said he’d ask _Dumbledore_? As crazy and bleeding-hearted as the old man was, he was still recognized as the only wizard alive who could rival Voldemort when it came to power. On the other hand, since Harry intended to actually _kill_ the Dark Lord, he would have to play in the same league as those two wizards, power-wise.

Draco closed his mouth with a snap, ignoring the amused eyebrow Harry raised at him (Honestly, where _had_ he gotten that habit? It looked naggingly familiar, but, as far as he could remember, his best friend had never done that), and inclined his head in what he hoped looked like dignified agreement. After all, a Malfoy never lost his poise.

At least, that was what his father had taught him. Not that he had ever managed to completely live up to his father’s expectations, but he’d always done his best. He forcefully shoved any uncomfortable thoughts about what his father would have to say if he saw him right now out of his head and shifted his focus back to the still amused-looking Harry in front of his cell.

“I’ll ask him then. Would before lunch be suitable for you?” Harry asked with mock-pompousness, his lips drawn in a teasing smile. Draco glared at him for a moment, then he couldn’t resist and nodded stiffly.

“I think I might just be able to fit that into my otherwise completely-packed schedule,” he answered haughtily. To his surprise, and secret delight, Harry burst out laughing.

“I’ll go arrange it, then. See you!” He nodded his farewell, still smiling broadly, and left the room with his cloak swirling behind him, leaving Draco alone to wait impatiently for lunch. Damn, he should have asked if he could have a book or something. It would be a miracle if he didn’t die of sheer boredom before this was over.

***

Harry hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps outside the dungeon room when there was a quiet “pop” in front of him and a house-elf appeared, bowing so deeply its large nose almost touched the floor.

“Mr. Harry Potter, Sir, the Headmaster wishes to see you,” it squeaked.

Harry raised one eyebrow, astonished at the convenience, then nodded. “I’m on my way, thank you.”

The house-elf looked up, eyeing him a bit surprised, ears starting to quiver slightly in excitement.

“Master Harry Potter is too kind, Sir. The password is ‘anima’.” Before Harry could do much more than blink in surprise at the non-sweets-related password, the house-elf had vanished again. Shrugging to himself, Harry went to see what Dumbledore wanted.

***


	9. Chapter 9

When Harry stepped into the office, he was greeted by a beaming Headmaster.

“Welcome, my boy, welcome! Come in, have a seat.” Dumbledore gestured to one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. Harry frowned and was about to make the nasty comment that was sitting at the tip of his tongue when he remembered that this Dumbledore and he actually hadn’t known each other for more than a couple of days. Therefore, he decided to cut the man some slack and to set the rules before he jumped into his face.

“Thank you, Sir,” he answered politely, though a bit coolly, “but please do not call me that.” He ignored Dumbledore’s mild, questioning look. “I know it must be hard for you to _not_ see us all as the rowdy children who populated the school at one time or another, but fact is, I am neither a child, nor am I your property. I am a fully-trained adult wizard who is responsible for his own actions, so I ask you to treat me with the respect due to one.” He levelled his best cold, steely look at the Headmaster. He knew it was a good look, after all, he had learned from the master, namely Snape. Dumbledore, surprisingly, looked truly chastised.

“My apologies, I meant no insult,” he assured Harry. Harry dropped the icy look, nodded and took the offered seat.

“Yes, I know,” he admitted. “Most people probably consider the jovial grandfather-routine endearing, if strange at first. Which leads to them underestimating you, which is, no doubt, exactly the reason why you’re doing it,” he added dryly. Dumbledore had the grace to let that stand without denying it. “But,” Harry continued, “it also expresses an attitude that I’m not comfortable with. By treating the rest of us as children, you imply that you know better. I don’t doubt that you’re a very wise man, and that you have gathered a lot of valuable experience in your life, but that still doesn’t give you the right to make decisions for me.”

Dumbledore sighed and gave him a sad look. “I get the feeling that my alternate version in your world made some very bad decisions concerning you,” he stated quietly, with a hint of questioning.

Harry nodded. “Yes, he did. His intentions were the best, but the result was a disaster, for me at least. I lost the only person I had left that I considered family, and it was to a good part my own fault, because I was acting on insufficient information. If I had known what was really going on, I could have acted more appropriately. As it was, I was treated like a child, and in turn, I acted like one. So I ask you to take me seriously, and show me the respect of an equal. In turn, I will treat you respectfully and gladly listen to your reasoning and advice.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling in that worrisome way that Harry hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Very well, very well,” he agreed readily, still with that damn twinkle. “That sounds like a reasonable basis for a healthy working relationship. What do you wish me to call you, then? And please forgive me if I lapse every now and then, it is simply a matter of habit.”

Harry couldn’t contain a slightly sardonic half-smile at that. He had no doubts at all that Dumbledore’s “lapses” would be at moments that just happened to be convenient for the old man for whatever reasons.

“You may call me Harry, or Mr. Potter, whichever you like better. And I assure you, I will remind you should you forget. I have, after all, broken you of that particular habit once before.”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched. “I see...” he commented in a slightly dry tone. “Now, the reason I called you here...”

Harry raised his eyebrows in question.

“Well, it seems you will be staying here for quite a while. However, this is still officially a school, therefore we need an explanation for your being here. Besides, we will have to explain your mere existence somehow. Unfortunately, the differences between our Mr. Potter and yourself are too marked for you to simply assume his place. Besides, we would have to explain ‘your’ changed allegiances. I think it would be better to simply introduce you as a separate person.”

“I was planning on just telling the truth,” Harry interjected. “This is a magical community, I think they should be able to handle something like parallel realities.”

Dumbledore looked doubtful. “I am not so sure of that, my...” he stopped himself, and smiled. “Harry,” he continued. “In my experience, our world does not like wild explanations. They will continue to speculate unless we give them something that satisfies them.”

Harry smiled wryly. “And I assume you already have thought up a suitable explanation?”

“Indeed, I think I have.” Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling merrily again. “As for your reason for being here, if you agree, I have a job to offer you.”

Now _that_ sparked Harry’s curiosity.

“Seeing as we are living in such dangerous times now, I think it would be prudent to reintroduce a Duelling Club for our students for additional practice in defending themselves. Therefore, I am in need of a Duelling instructor, and with your experience in the area of fighting, I’m certain you are exactly the right man for this job. Do you accept? You would, of course, receive a full teacher’s salary.”

Harry blinked. Teaching? Him? Well, it would mean he could stay at Hogwarts without arousing suspicion. And if he could prepare the students... He’d always felt that the students weren’t being taught appropriately. The teachers always tried to keep them safe and protected, but in the end, they would be out there, and the only thing they would be able to rely on would be their own abilities.

“Would I be able to devise my own curriculum?” he asked. If Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers were going to dictate him what to teach, he would have to decline. He was not going to subscribe to the common policy of political correctness.

“Well, you would be required to run your ideas by me, but in general, the teachers here have quite a bit of freedom in what they teach.”

Harry nodded hesitantly.

“I can’t say that I have much experience in teaching, but the idea has some merit. More practice certainly won’t hurt the students. And what would be your ideas for explaining my ‘existence’?”

“Well, I have thought of several options. First, we could give you a new name, a new history, make an entirely new person out of you. That, however, would present us with several problems as well: You would need to wear a Glamour Charm at all times, as you have simply inherited too many of your parents’ looks for it to be coincidental. I don’t know if you are planning to stay here in our world forever, but you will be here awhile at least if you take on Tom Riddle, and I figure it could become tiresome to always hide your true looks, not to mention the ruse could be discovered.”

Harry nodded slowly.

“I haven’t really thought about going back yet,” he admitted. “I think I’ll decide what to do on that front once I’ve defeated Voldemort. But I’m not really fond of the idea of having to wear a glamour charm at all times. And besides, several people already know the truth about how I came here and who I am, and one of them could slip up.”

“Ah, yes, there is that possibility,” Dumbledore agreed. “This brings me to my other idea...”

The plan Dumbledore outlined sounded quite far-fetched to Harry, but he had to admit, it had that Dumbledore-esque ingenuity. And if Dumbledore understood anything, it was human behaviour.

What Dumbledore proposed was to pass Harry off as his own cousin, if Lily and James were prepared to back up the ruse, of course. Since Lily was Muggle-born, and therefore her family records weren’t easily accessible for members of the Wizarding world, Dumbledore planned to explain Harry’s resemblance to her with them being aunt and nephew. So far, the plan sounded quite down to earth. But, of course, there was also Harry’s strong resemblance to James to consider. If they were seen next to each other, it would be quite obvious that they were related, as well. And if Harry planned to stay at Hogwarts, it would be impossible to avoid people noticing this.

But Dumbledore had an explanation ready for this as well. He had concocted some story about how James had had a summer fling with Lily’s sister while he and Lily had broken up at one time, the result of which would then be Harry. Dumbledore took great care in narrating the story with suitable drama, and that damned twinkle more pronounced and mischievous than ever. The whole thing was, of course, a piece of pure fiction, but it would provide sufficient cover for Harry.

When Harry expressed scepticism that anyone would believe such a wild tale, Dumbledore smiled serenely. They would, he explained, only release the first part, about Harry being Lily’s nephew, to the public. Then people would start speculating, certain that there was more to it. At an appropriate time, they would carefully plant the second half of the ruse. Once that “scandal” would be public knowledge, people would feel the secret was uncovered, and stop digging deeper. Harry already had horror visions of the headlines the _Daily Prophet_ would come up with, but he had to admit, it actually sounded like it might work. If Dumbledore knew anything, it was how to manipulate people into thinking what he wanted them to think.

After Harry gave his hesitant agreement to the plan, Dumbledore summoned a house-elf to fetch the Potters, since their cooperation would, of course, be essential for this scheme to work.

Lily and James entered the room, both looking curious, and just a bit wary. After the usual niceties had been taken care of and they were both sitting in comfortable chairs, teacups in their hands, Dumbledore started to explain what he had discussed with Harry in terms of his upcoming employment and their plans for his “disguise”. James frowned a bit when he mentioned the “affair” James was supposed to have had with Lily’s sister, and Lily gave Harry a slightly worried look which Harry couldn’t decipher.

“And you would be okay with that?” James asked Harry, still looking sceptical.

“Well...” Harry hedged, then decided to be truthful, “I would prefer things the other way ‘round, but I can’t think of a better way to explain the family resemblance.”

James nodded, as if he had expected this, leading Harry to ask himself whether he had been _that_ obvious about his mixed feelings for the man.

“Of course, if Lily were your mother and I were a relative of some sort, you _would_ keep your magical heritage,” James observed.

Harry blinked at him, confused. His heritage had been the last thing on his mind about this whole plan.

James, seeing his surprised look, frowned. “Wasn’t that what you meant?” he asked, obviously nonplussed himself.

Harry looked between him and Lily, who still looked concerned about his reaction, then to Dumbledore, who was just sitting there, calmly sipping tea.

“No, that wasn’t what I meant. Frankly, I didn’t even think of that,” Harry answered, trying to wrap his mind around _that_ consideration. It would make him half Muggle, he supposed, but he couldn’t quite grasp the implications of that.

As far as he had gathered up to now, Voldemort had succeeded in strengthening the anti-Muggle-born sentiment here, perhaps even to the point where discrimination was accepted, and of course he knew the way people like the Malfoys had treated Hermione, but somehow, he just couldn’t really imagine what it would be like for _him_ to face that kind of slander. Due to his fame, he’d never had to deal with something like this. His own half-blood status had never truly mattered in light of the whole Boy-Who-Lived deal.

He knew all about being discredited by the media, and Draco had thrown slurs at his mother with a passion, but that had always been about getting under his skin. So, could he deal with strange people thinking they were better than him just because of their family tree? Oh, well, he supposed he could. He just would have to teach them to reconsider.

In fact...

Harry felt a smirk tugging at his lips. In fact, the irony of being even more alike to Tom Riddle appealed to him. A half Muggle to defeat a half Muggle.

He looked up, at the concerned face of Lily, the confused frown of James and the serene smile of Dumbledore.

“I like it,” he declared, the smirk breaking through. “And it might even be politically useful. As far as I can tell, Voldemort’s propaganda has done a job of it here. I guess it’s time someone kicked some prejudiced pure-blood arse.”

“You... you don’t mind?” Lily asked, sounding truly astonished.

“About the blood thing? No. Why would I? It doesn’t matter.”

Lily just shook her head. “You’re really different from our son,” she said, sounding wistful.

“If you’re not concerned about being considered a half-blood, then why would you prefer the plan with Lily as your mother?” James wanted to know before Harry could comment.

Harry studied him for a moment, then went for the diplomatic explanation. His issues with the man, or his alternate version, were better discussed in private, he decided.

“Well, as it is, I’m basically pretending to be my cousin. I know my _real_ cousin, and believe me-” Harry shuddered slightly, “-he’s not someone I want to be.”

“Yes, Petunia has a son, hasn’t she?” Lily commented. “You don’t like him?”

Harry shook his head decidedly. Dudley had lost his status as “bane of his existence” a long time ago to larger foes, but he would always stay Harry’s number one childhood nemesis.

“Why not?” Lily asked curiously. “What is he like? I have never met him,” she added in explanation.

Harry considered his answer for a moment.

“I don’t know what he’s like here, of course,” he said then. Perhaps his not being part of the Dursley household had changed things there, who knew? “The one I knew was a large, fat, spoilt bully who delighted in hurting those weaker than himself. Beating up younger kids on the school yard, dumping cats into petrol and burning them alive, throwing rocks through windows on Hallowe’en, that kind of guy.”

Lily looked slightly green, and James mildly upset. Even Dumbledore had lost his sunny smile.

“An unpleasant young man,” Dumbledore observed. “I can understand why you dislike being associated with him. But it seems necessary, so if all of you agree, I think we should discuss the details of this matter.”

So they did, and by the time lunch came around, Harry had not only a new name, but a complete life history. He was going to be known as Harry Evans, a compromise he could well live with, just as long as it wasn’t “Dursley”.

In their little story, Petunia had stayed unmarried and had devoted her time to raising her son in the Muggle world. The image of Petunia as a devoted mother, or rather, _his_ devoted mother, nearly sent Harry into a fit of hysterical laughter. If she was dead in his world, his aunt would roll in her grave if she knew.

After some debate they concluded the story with Petunia’s tragic death at the hands of Death Eaters, which would nicely explain Harry’s planned campaign against Voldemort. Lily and James had taken in their orphaned (or half-orphaned) nephew, and were now introducing him to the Wizarding world. He had, in this story, of course never attended Hogwarts, and received his tutoring privately. It raised the question _why_ he hadn’t come to school here like all the other Magical children of Great Britain. Eventually, they settled on the explanation that Petunia had moved to the United States shortly before his eleventh birthday. James offered up to claim he had had a hand in that, if the question was ever raised after their little scandal hit the press. Allegedly, he had wanted to avoid the exact situation he would now find himself in: the uncanny resemblance between him and his “illicit child”.

Ruefully, he claimed that it was fortunate his parents had already died years ago in these circumstances, because as liberal-minded as they were, a child with an unmarried Muggle woman would just be too over the top for them.

When Harry claimed he didn’t know anything about the United States, Dumbledore assured him that most of the British wizards and witches wouldn’t, either, and even less about the Muggle side of things. Apparently, America’s wizards weren’t as organized as the European ones, and everything was much more in touch with the Muggle world there. Wizards mostly blended in, and a truly separate Wizarding world had not established itself there. This made the more conservative wizards in Britain turn their noses up at the idea of having more contact over the ocean than absolutely necessary. And that, in turn, provided a nice cover for Harry. His “mother” and he had returned a few years earlier, so he would have only spent enough time there to miss his education in Hogwarts. This would explain his lack of an American accent away, and also serve as cover for any unusual spells he might use, most of which likely hadn't been invented in this universe. All in all, it turned out quite the nice little story, considering it was completely fictitious, Harry thought.

They were just preparing to leave for lunch when Harry remembered his rather important request for the Headmaster.

“Professor Dumbledore?” he asked as James and Lily were just stepping out of the office.

Dumbledore looked at him questioningly, so Harry told him about Draco’s little condition. “If you would agree to a friendly duel?” he asked politely.

During his brief explanation Dumbledore’s eyes had lit up with that familiar twinkle, and now he was positively beaming.

“Why, I would be most delighted, my boy, most delighted!”

“Well, then, old man, when shall we meet?” Harry responded with the most innocent look he could manage on his face. He would _not_ let Dumbledore get away with it.

Dumbledore looked truly surprised for a moment, which led Harry to believe that it had actually been an honest slip, then he started laughing loudly.

Harry got the distinct impression that Dumbledore hadn’t had as much fun in years as he had had in the last few days. Well, if there was one Gryffindor trait in the man - and sometimes it was hard to believe that he hadn’t been in Slytherin - it was that he loved a good challenge. And since he was respected as a powerful wizard, few dared to stand up to him. All sorts of things were said behind his back, but not many people told him off to his face. Harry found himself grinning along with the laughing old man.

Yes, Albus Dumbledore was quite the enigma. And this Dumbledore still had that spark that the one in Harry’s world seemed to have lost years ago. Too many difficult decisions, some of which did not turn out well, had broken that strong man, and left him weak and sad and old, caught up in remorse and self-recrimination.

Perhaps, Harry reflected, it was Dumbledore’s love for him that had broken him. But he refused the wave of guilt that tried to settle in with that thought. Dumbledore was a grown man who had made his choices, and so he had to live with them. That was what life was about, what responsibility was about. The knowledge of the prophecy had been a useful gift, but also a terrible burden for his old mentor. Here, this string of possible choices had by-passed Dumbledore, but he still had undoubtedly fought Voldemort every step of the way to the best of his abilities. Perhaps this Dumbledore was stronger, perhaps he would not turn into a sad, broken old man, but remain the enigmatic, barmy old codger Harry had come to admire as a boy.

Calming down, but with his blue eyes still sparkling with mirth, Dumbledore considered Harry’s question.

“Ah, it seems we have the choice of fighting with an empty stomach, or a full one, as I imagine young Mister Malfoy is quite eager to leave his cell. But this kind of exercise on a full stomach is not advisable, so I suggest we postpone lunch until after our duel.”

Harry nodded his agreement, and they started out of the office and down the stairs.

“I imagine quite a few of our colleagues would be eager to see a demonstration of you in action, so to speak, as well,” Dumbledore remarked as they walked. “Would you mind if I took a little detour towards the Great Hall and gather those interested?”

“Of course,” Harry agreed at once, only now realizing that they might have similar concerns as Draco did. After all, they _hadn’t_ seen him grow up, hadn’t trained him, and didn’t know what he was capable of. It was strange, not being the decorated war-hero everyone expected miracles of...

“I’ll just go ahead and inform Draco,” Harry told Dumbledore. “Should I erect a little dampening ward around our duelling area, just in case of cross-fire?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Please do. We will be with you in a moment.”

They parted ways in the Entrance Hall, Harry heading for the dungeons, and Dumbledore for the Great Hall.

***


	10. Chapter 10

***

Harry stepped into the large dungeon room, his mind already on the upcoming duel. He had never duelled Dumbledore before, but he was confident that he could win this one. What Dumbledore had in experience, he could make up for in speed and endurance. Besides, he had a few nice little surprises up his sleeves. And, for all his power and knowledge, Dumbledore wasn’t a warrior. Harry hadn’t done much but fight in the past six years of his life.

He hadn’t ever had a chance to complete his education and take his NEWTs, so in theory there was no profession he could claim to have, but he considered himself a trained soldier. Fighting was what all his life had been about from the moment Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse on his parents twenty years ago. No, there weren’t many wizards who could take him on one on one.

He noticed how Draco had sat up from where he had been lying on his narrow bed when he entered. He couldn’t help but give the blond a little smile. Somehow, it was very easy to call him “Draco”. He was sort of... adorable.

If there was one adjective Harry had thought he would never use in connection with Draco Malfoy it was anything in the direction of adorable, or cute, and yet... this one was. He seemed so... young. His hair was slightly mussed from lying down, and as he looked at Harry a hopeful expression spread across his face. He tried to conceal it, of course, and affect the cool and composed demeanour expected of a Slytherin and a Malfoy, but somehow, he just wasn’t very good at it. At least not as far as Harry was concerned, considering that he was used to deciphering the almost unreadable mask of “his” Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater.

“Hi,” he greeted the boy. “Dumbledore will be down here shortly for the duel. He’s collecting some more people who might want to see the fight. Seems you’re not the only one who’s not completely confident in my abilities to do what I say I can.” He couldn’t help the wry smile that stretched his lips.

Draco blinked at him for a moment, looking unsure. “Er... well,” he started, then, “it’s a pretty big thing you promise... The Dark Lord _is_ a very powerful wizard. And, well-” he looked a bit uncomfortable, “-you _are_ just Harry Potter, after all.”

For a moment, Harry simply stared at him. Then the absolute _absurdity_ of that statement hit him, and he collapsed in a fit of laughter.

For over a _decade_ he had been telling people that very thing, that he was “just Harry”, and here Draco Malfoy was, blithely informing him that he was “just Harry Potter, after all”. Just Harry Potter, indeed...

When he finally calmed down again, Draco was eyeing him warily, obviously not sure what to make of his reaction. To be truthful, Harry himself didn’t know what to make of it. It had simply been a case of either laughing or crying.

“Sorry,” he told the blond, “it was just...” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it. My life, I guess.

“Anyway, you’ll get your duel, and anyone else who’s interested, too. If I defeat Dumbledore, would that convince you I just might be able to defeat Voldemort, too?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Draco shrugged a bit. “I mean, Dumbledore’s not... well, as unscrupulous as the Dark Lord, but I suppose he’s still quite powerful.”

Harry smiled thinly. “Well, if you’re convinced I have the power to do what I claim I can do, I guess you’ll just have to believe me that I have the necessary morals, or lack thereof, as well.”

Draco nodded a bit hesitantly, and Harry turned around to look for the best place for the duel. He pushed the table a bit to one side, then went about setting up the dampening ward.

He felt Draco watching him interestedly as he walked around his chosen spot in a large ellipsis, easily containing the traditional ten steps distance for the duel, his wand pointing at the floor, softly chanting the incantations under his breath.

“What are you doing?” Draco finally asked curiously.

Harry held up a hand to signal him to wait a moment, and finished his ellipsis at the starting point. He drew up his wand in the appropriate wide, sweeping arc to raise the magic to a dome, and finished his downward stroke with the intricate swirl of his wand tip to seal the ward and disconnect it from himself. For a moment he hesitated, then he drew one of his knifes and pricked his fingertip. A little blood would strengthen the ward considerably, and since he wasn’t completely sure what kind of spells Dumbledore and he would be using inside it, and how they would interact, he preferred his audience to be on the safe side.

Strictly speaking, any blood magic was considered Dark, and therefore illegal, but there was really not much mischief he could do with a blood-imbued spell-dampening ward he himself would be inside of. Besides, what was legal and what was right, or even necessary, weren’t always the same thing. In fact, they weren’t the same thing even most of the time. During his twenty-one years of life, Harry had seen his share of evil, and he thought he could recognize it. If one put their mind to it, they could do evil without ever touching the Dark Arts.

Harry crouched down and touched his finger to the ground where the invisible line of his ward ran, and closed his eyes, concentrating. A brief surge of magic, and the ward absorbed a little bit of his innate magic, not the controlled energy emitted through his wand, but his own, very personal, raw power. It was little enough that Harry hardly felt the loss, and his body would replace it within minutes, but it would lend considerable strength to the ward.

He stood up again and turned to Draco, flicking his wand to heal the little cut on his fingertip.

“I’ve just put up a little spell-dampening ward, just in case, so no one gets hit by any stray Magic.”

“Did you just strengthen it with _blood_?” Draco wanted to know, looking a bit wide-eyed.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah.”

“That’s illegal!” Draco blurted out.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I know. It’s a _spell ward_ , for God’s sake! It’s not as if I could do anything with it. For one thing, I’m going to be inside it, as well, for another, anyone who doesn’t like it can just walk out. It’s not a physical ward, after all.”

“Yeah, I know, but won’t Dumbledore _notice_?”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Probably.”

“But... he could report you to the Ministry!”

Harry waved that away. “He won’t. Firstly, he knows that laws aren’t everything, secondly, I’m his best bet to get rid of Voldemort, and as long as he thinks I even have the slightest chance of defeating him, he won’t turn me in for something _this_ small.”

“Well, if you think so...” Draco didn’t sound entirely convinced, but he seemed willing to drop the argument.

Which was strange in itself, Harry reflected. A Draco Malfoy who was willing to _not_ argue with him. A Draco Malfoy who was willing to carry a civil conversation with him... A strange world indeed.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice interrupted his thoughts. That was another strange thing, Draco calling him “Harry” like that. He gave a little mental sigh. They would have to have a talk he supposed, sorting out what they knew about each other and what they didn't, what they expected from each other...

He turned his attention back to Draco. “Yeah?”

“If I stay, what will happen with me? What will I do?”

Harry considered this. He had given it some thought, and discussed various options with Dumbledore while Draco had lain unconscious in his cell.

“Well, as I see it, there are basically two options for you. Firstly, you could go into hiding, somewhere out of the country, perhaps on the continent, or even farther away if Voldemort’s influence already reaches this far. Your other option would be to stay here. Of course, that wouldn’t be without problems, either. The students can’t be allowed to see you, as the information could get back to Voldemort. That would mean you’d have to stay mostly inside a limited part of the castle.”

***

Draco realized he really hadn’t thought his decision through. He might have agonized about it for most of the night, but he still hadn’t really considered the consequences, such as what he would do after Harry believed him he intended to stay neutral, or what he would do while the war raged on. His family was out there, all of them firmly on the Dark Lord’s side. He himself had been a member of the Death Eaters since he was sixteen! True, neither he nor Harry had ever done anything much in that capacity, apart from setting up some diversions and stuff, but still, they had been firmly embedded in the structure of the Death Eaters. And now...

Now he was willing to throw all that away, question everything he believed in, give in to all of his secret doubts, knowing that if they ever found out, all of his family and friends would brand him as a “blood traitor”– the worst thing that could happen to him, worse than torture and death. He would be deleted from the family tree, never to be spoken of again, his name cleared from the records as if he had never existed. And he was willing to risk all that, risk his inheritance, his place in the world, the very things that defined his existence, to follow a man who reminded him of his lost best friend, but was so entirely different. It was crazy, it was madness, but he felt drawn to this man, curious about him, eager to get to know him better. This man seemed to create a vortex, drawing in everything and everyone he touched. Draco briefly reflected if it was some kind of strange magical ability, or simply charisma.

Whatever it was, he knew he wanted to be a part of it, to be close to Harry and whatever was going to happen around him. It would certainly be the more uncomfortable of his options. In fact, he would be facing house arrest for an uncertain amount of time, and he rather suspected that there would be further repercussions. For example, Harry hadn’t mentioned giving him back his wand.

Then again, he might have had his wand at the training camp, but he hadn’t been allowed to leave, either, and at least he would be spared the gruelling training sessions here. He didn’t like admitting it, even to himself, but casting the Unforgiveables scared him. There was a reason they were termed that.

Taking a deep breath he stopped this train of thought and looked up at Harry again, who was watching him calmly with those so very green eyes.

“If I’m convinced by the duel” –which he knew he was going to be– “I want to stay here.” He had nearly said “with you”, but, thankfully, had been able to stop himself at the last moment.

A short grin flashed up on Harry’s face at his words, as if he had said what Harry had hoped he would say. Could it really be that this strong, independent man honestly wanted his company? Well, he had gone through the trouble of kidnapping him from the house, and he had admitted to having a crush on the Draco Malfoy from his world, but still...

If his best friend had been in this Harry’s position, Draco doubted that he would have gone through all the trouble to get to a person who was, after all, essentially a stranger. Well, if there was a love interest, perhaps...

***

Harry was glad to hear that Draco intended to stay at Hogwarts rather than leave for some other hiding place, and not only because he wanted to get to know this version of his former rival. It would also be much easier to keep an eye on him like this, because as cute and comparatively innocent as this Draco Malfoy seemed, Harry still wouldn’t trust him farther than he could throw him.

Just then Dumbledore arrived with Lily and James in tow, as well as Professor McGonagall. The deputy headmistress and two teachers whom Draco wouldn’t be surprised to see associated with Harry– a wise choice by Dumbledore, no doubt. Even if Draco managed to get the information back to Voldemort, it wouldn’t be worth much, because it would at the worst ascertain suspicions the Death Eaters no doubt already had concerning probable members of the Order.

If Voldemort even knew about the Order, that was. Harry suddenly realized that he didn’t even know that, meaning he was seriously behind in the information game that was so vital in any war. They had had their initial strategy session, but they had covered more general areas of the state of affairs. He needed to talk to Dumbledore at length, Harry decided. But first of all, he had to prove to these people that he actually could deliver what he promised.

Harry and Dumbledore exchanged a nod in greeting, while Lily and James looked curiously at Draco, who stood leaning at the bars of his cell, his arms crossed before his chest and trying to look as if the proceedings didn’t interest him in the least. Harry almost smiled when he saw that pretend bored look on Draco’s face. It was something the Draco in his world had stopped using as a mask years ago.

Dumbledore stepped up to him to examine the ward, while McGonagall watched the proceedings with a disapproving look on her face. Harry wondered why that was. Sure, he knew McGonagall as strict, but she had rarely looked this displeased. For all her strictness, there was this Gryffindorish spark of mischief in her, hidden deep under the surface. Or at least that had been the case with the Professor McGonagall he had known in his world. Perhaps this one was different?

“Ah, a fine, strong ward you have here, Mr Potter,” Dumbledore observed mildly. The twinkle in his eyes told Harry that Dumbledore knew exactly how he had strengthened the ward.

Harry nodded, keeping a perfectly neutral expression on his own face. “Well, we wouldn’t want any innocent bystanders to be hurt by accident, would we?” he answered, in the same mild tone.

Dumbledore nodded. “Certainly, m...” He interrupted himself, smiled, and continued, “Harry. Well then, shall we begin?”

Just then, McGonagall stepped up to them.

“Are you sure about this, Albus?” she asked, frowning at Harry. Harry blinked, confused.

Dumbledore, though, just beamed at her. “Yes, yes, my dear, don’t worry. I’m sure our Mr. Potter here won’t put an old man under too much strain.”

Suddenly, Harry understood. McGonagall was worried about Dumbledore’s safety! Because of _him_! Well, she hadn’t been there when he had “arrived” here. He had seen her occasionally during meal-times, but never up close. In a way, this was the first time she met him, and from the vibes he was getting from her, she didn’t particularly like him. But if everything he had heard about his alternate version was true, he could understand that she might have reservations about him.

“Well,” he answered Dumbledore’s comment, “I had thought we should restrict ourselves to the use of spells up to and including the level of ‘Stupefy’. I don’t think we need anything more dangerous than that, do we?”

“Yes, I agree. It is only a friendly duel so our audience can satisfy themselves of your competence, after all. Shall we begin?”

Harry nodded, and Dumbledore and he took their places in the middle of the duelling area, while the others stepped back to observe.

They bowed, and then Harry turned around and took his five steps, mentally already cataloguing the spells he would use. He felt himself slip into the detached calm of his fighting mode, where all his senses seemed especially sharp, where he registered every little movement, every sound and every smell, but where all his emotions and thoughts seemed distant, like they belonged to someone else. In this state of mind he acted on instinct, reasoning out his strategies so fast that he simply _knew_ what to do, but couldn’t have said where that knowledge came from. It was almost some kind of trance. In this state he could ignore pain and fatigue until he simply collapsed.

Harry reached his end of the area and whirled around, whipped his wand out of the wrist sheath and had it pointed in one smooth motion. If he had intended to use an aggressive strategy, he would have had a split second to start casting, but as it was, he watched Dumbledore’s wand come up without moving.

A moment later, several spell-flashes were heading towards him in short succession, but all of them fizzled into nothingness on his personal shields before they came even close to reaching him. Considering he hadn’t even felt their impact, he knew they were minor hexes to test his shields, just as he had expected. Ignoring several more heading his way, he cast a selected few minor spells himself, non-verbally, as Dumbledore had. He watched them briefly light up before they faded on Dumbledore’s shields. He had expected Dumbledore to carry personal shields, though it wasn’t usual practice for normal witches and wizards. Someone as crafty as Dumbledore wouldn’t forego useful protection like that.

They weren’t battle shields, though. They were set much closer to Dumbledore’s body than a professional soldier would. These were shields meant to be unobtrusive, more to ward off any unexpected attacks from behind than the direct attacks of an opponent in a battle situation. His wider shields gave Harry that moment to at least attempt an evasion or a fast block if something did come through.

Any way, he had to dismantle Dumbledore’s shields, and he knew just the curse to do so. The problem was getting that curse to Dumbledore. In theory, he could also attempt to just break through with raw power, but even he would have trouble imbuing that much power into something no stronger than a Stunner.

For a moment they both paused, considering each other, waiting for the other to make the next move. Harry decided to take the initiative, and sent a mildly annoying case of muscle spasms towards Dumbledore. It was slightly higher in level than the previous spells, but nothing Dumbledore’s shields would have much problem dealing with. Dumbledore promptly returned the favour, and while he was moving his wand, Harry used that opportunity to couple a Drainer with a bright-yellow Tickling Jinx and send the result towards Dumbledore. The strong yellow colour of the jinx should conceal the green of the Drainer. Unfortunately, green curses tended to make wizards duck when they were heading towards them, and the Drainer needed to connect with the wards to work. The Tickling Jinx faded on impact with the shields as all the others had, but a short green hue which he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching for it told Harry that the Drainer had taken hold.

Those Drainers were another ingenious construction of Hermione’s. On their own, they were very unstable and collapsed without any result moments after casting. But if they latched on a ward, they would gradually drain that ward of energy to sustain themselves. Once the ward collapsed, they collapsed with it, leaving the wizard or witch unprotected, and, if cast appropriately, none the wiser as to their vulnerability.

Unfortunately, in Harry’s world the Death Eaters had gotten hold of the spell, and it had become a widely cast curse by both sides. A Drainer was easily taken care of if it was detected before it could collapse the ward. But since no one had time to cast detection spells in the midst of battle, the common method was to simply boost ones wards whenever one had a moment to do so. The little surge of power was too much for the instable curse, and if there was one, it would collapse, feeding the drained energy back into the shields, no harm done. It was a curse you had to sneak on your opponent and then hope that it wasn’t detected. Since Dumbledore didn’t know of its existence, Harry had good hopes of collapsing his personal shields - given the Drainer had enough time to work. So, now all he had to do was to keep the old wizard busy.

He set about casting a wide variety of hexes, jinxes and curses of medium power level to pretend to be trying to break down Dumbledore’s shields the old-fashioned way. Dumbledore returned fire, and Harry had his hands quite full from preventing his own shields being breached. He had to duck or side-step several of the bright flashes heading towards him, knowing that they would overwhelm his defences due to the amount of power Dumbledore was laying into them. He certainly was a challenging opponent. What he lacked in speed due to his age he made up for with experience and creativity in his spell-use. Some of the things heading for him Harry didn’t even recognize, and there weren’t many duelling spells he didn’t know.

When one of the spells struck him a glancing blow, he could feel his wards humming with the absorbed energy, and it took a lot to strain his shields with spells of this level. The spell ward he had set up was alive with misfired spells and excess magical energy. Harry was glad he had strengthened the ward, otherwise it wouldn’t have withstood this amount of power for long.

They were duelling hard and fast for several long minutes, and Harry could actually feel slight fatigue creeping into his bones, which was a sign of just how powerful Dumbledore was. There were Death Eaters he had duelled using everything up to and including Unforgiveables, and he hadn’t broken so much as a sweat, but Dumbledore demanded all of his concentration and considerable endurance to keep his own.

Another volley of spells was heading towards him, and Harry sidestepped the first two when he noticed a third coming straight at him too late. It breached his first layer of personal wards without so much as slowing down, and, mentally berating himself for being so sloppy, all Harry could do was turn his shoulder into it to let his cloak take the brunt of the force. The impact staggered him for a moment, and icy cold started to spread from his shoulder. Harry recognized the feeling from many a stay in the hospital wing. It was a numbing spell usually used before healing larger injuries. His cloak slowed the progress of the spell down, but in moments he would lose the use of his wand arm.

Quickly he switched his wand to his left just before his fingers lost all feeling. He had to end it now, or he would be at a serious disadvantage. He could cast left-handed, but not against an opponent of Dumbledore’s calibre. Hoping that the Drainer had done its job, he ducked another spell coming at him and prepared for his final strike.

“Kreuz des Suedens!” he yelled out, the first spell to be cast verbally in the duel, and slashed his wand in the violent, sweeping cross-wise motion required. The result was a bright, violet formation, like two curved blades crossed in the middle at right angles, heading for Dumbledore. The eyes of the old wizard went wide as he saw the unfamiliar curse heading towards him, and he threw up a shield, to protect himself against the seemingly desperate curse Harry had thrown at him, just as Harry had hoped he would.

Kreuz des Suedens was what they called a tactical curse. It only worked under very specific circumstances. Similar to the Drainer, and in fact a product of the same line of research by Hermione, it was in itself a weak curse that needed a shield to boost itself. In the case of this curse, it absorbed the energy of strong shields to reach its full potential. A weak shield, and it would collapse because of lack of energy. Therefore, this curse was useless against people who knew what it did and how it worked, but it was great for disarming and capturing people who could be scared into raising a shield against it. Like Dumbledore, who had decided to err on the side of caution, since if the curse required speaking out loud, it had to be something more powerful than what Harry had cast up to then, right?

The truth was, Harry could easily have cast it non-verbally, but that would have detracted from the effect. This was the reason the curse had a German name, as well. In short, it was a spell that completely relied on being showy. Perhaps it was this psychological component the Slytherin in Harry liked so much about this one.

With satisfaction he watched as the curse met Dumbledore’s shield, flashed up and brightened, and then hit a surprised Dumbledore frontally in the chest. Little violet lines spread in an intricate web all over Dumbledore’s robes from the point of impact, then faded, and Dumbledore stood motionless. The spell had immobilized his clothes, trapping him inside of them. A simple “Expelliarmus” from Harry later, Dumbledore was rid of his wand, and Harry had won the duel.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his working left arm, Harry turned to the spell-ward, and dissolved it after he had checked that no residual magical energy was left to endanger people. Then he went over to Dumbledore to dissolve the ‘Kreuz des Suedens’ on his clothes.

The old wizard was smiling brightly.

“That was a great duel!” he exclaimed. “I would applaud you if I could. Pray tell, what _was_ that spell? I was quite sure my shield would be strong enough to ward it off!”

Harry couldn’t quite suppress the smirk that tugged on his lips.

“Another one of the many curses Hermione developed during her research. Why don’t we sit down and I explain it? Allow me.” He tapped Dumbledore’s robes with his wand and dissolved the curse and handed the old wizard his wand back.

“Ah, yes, I could use a little rest. You are _quite_ the duellist, I have to say.”

Harry actually felt a little colour stain his cheeks at the compliment. He _knew_ he was good, after all, he had never lost a duel when it counted, and there had been many powerful wizards who had tried to kill him. He had defeated Voldemort, for God’s sake, but still, a compliment from Dumbledore carried a special weight.

“Thank you,” he replied. “You are a challenging opponent, as well.”

They stepped up to the table, while their audience still seemed to be in a bit of shock.

“Now, what was that last spell you used?” Dumbledore demanded to know as soon as they sat.

So Harry explained the curse to him in detail. Dumbledore was fascinated, especially with the little feature of _absorbing_ the shield. Then he frowned.

“But what of my personal wards? Did the curse get enough power from the shield to break them?”

Harry grinned.

“You might want to check your wards,” was all he said.

Dumbledore looked at him, confused, but then he closed his eyes to check. A moment later they flew open again.

“They are gone!” the old wizard exclaimed, then turned piercing eyes on a grinning Harry. “How did you do that?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll recharge themselves within the next half hour, approximately,” Harry assured the wizard first of all. “They aren’t destroyed, they’re simply inactive because of lack of energy,” Harry continued to explain about the Drainer. James, Lily and McGonagall had taken a seat as well and were listening with varying degrees of astonishment on their faces. McGonagall in particular didn’t seem very pleased with his actual defeat of Dumbledore.

“Well, do you all believe that I _can_ actually defeat Voldemort now?” Harry asked after he had finished his explanations. His shoulder began to tingle unpleasantly as the numbing spell started to wear off and he started to massage it with his left. He would have to remember the use of that spell in a fight, it was highly effective.

Dumbledore assured him of his confidence, and the others gave affirmative nods as well, though McGonagall’s was barely perceptible. Harry looked over to Draco, who was still standing with his shoulder leant against the bars.

Draco’s eyes flicked from Harry to the four teachers, and he seemed decidedly uncomfortable in their presence. Well, they had belonged to the “other side” until yesterday, as far as he was concerned, so... But Harry still found it hard to comprehend that Draco actually seemed a lot more comfortable in _his_ presence than in that of any of the others.

“Yeah, I guess I believe you...” Draco answered quietly.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore exclaimed, which Draco commented with a suspicious look. “Harry, I think we should discuss Mr. Malfoy’s accommodation then.”

It seemed, since Harry had brought Draco here, that the blond would be his responsibility. Well, Harry had no problem with that. So he spent the next few minutes quietly discussing Draco’s future and the necessary security measures. And after that, Dumbledore and the others left, and Harry was alone with Draco again. A Draco he was about to let out of his cell. Some part of him was wary about that, arguing that it was bad strategy to let a captured Death Eater loose, especially _this_ captured Death Eater. But he rigorously silenced those instincts and stepped up to the cell.

His eyes never left Draco’s as he lifted his wand to unlock the cell, and suddenly he was aware of how fast and hard his heart was beating. Suddenly he realized that he hadn’t been this close to the other man since that surreal night they had spent together. In this moment it didn’t matter that this wasn’t the Draco Malfoy he had known all his life as he looked into those familiar, grey eyes watching him back with equal intensity. Suddenly all the old desire, all the old frustration was back, mixed in with a feeling of something new, a new beginning, a second chance to make this work.

Mouth dry, he held the cell door open for Draco to step out, all of his being coiled tightly like a spring, waiting for the trap, waiting for the attack.

It didn’t come. Draco stepped out of the cell carefully, watching him warily, but he made no further move once he was outside.

The moment stretched as they stood there, watching each other, waiting for the other to do something.

“Well...” Harry started, then had to clear his throat. “Well, Dumbledore is having the house-elves prepare quarters for you in the teachers’ wing, next to mine. I hope that’s okay.”

It felt really strange to use such a civil tone with _Draco Malfoy_ , to be polite to him.

Draco nodded, still with that neutral expression. It struck Harry that the blond probably didn’t know how to act around him any more than he did.

“Sure, that’s fine. Er... about my wand?” Draco enquired carefully.

Harry nodded.

“I’ll give it back to you under two conditions. Firstly, I place a restriction spell on it that will let me know if you cast anything of a higher level than a Stunner. Secondly, you swear to me, on the name and honour of Salazar Slytherin, that you will not use it to harm me, the people associated with me, or my cause.”

Draco’s eyes went slightly wide at that.

“A restriction spell _and_ you want me to swear?” He sounded incredulous.

Harry just nodded.

“Well... okay, all right, I swear,” Draco grumbled.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“What?!”

“Well, swear, then,” Harry said dryly, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. The boy _was_ a Slytherin, no doubt about that.

“I just said I did!” Draco protested.

Harry only shook his head.

“Oh no. You said you _would_ , but you didn’t actually swear anything. You’re not getting your wand until I hear those words from you.” He smirked at Draco, who lightly scowled at him.

“Oh, well, it was worth a try.” The blond shrugged.

Harry raised an eyebrow again.

“You didn’t actually think I would fall for that, did you? And if you’re trying to distract me, it won’t work.”

Draco blinked at him. “Actually... I thought it would work, or I wouldn’t have tried it. Okay then...” He took a deep breath. “I swear, on the name and honour of Salazar Slytherin, that I will not hurt you, the people associated with you, or your cause. Satisfied?”

Harry, frankly, was astonished. “More than. I only wanted you to swear you wouldn’t hurt me _with your wand_.”

Draco’s cheeks went a bit pink and he shrugged uncomfortably.

“Well, if I do it, might as well do it right, no? And there’s not that much I could do without a wand, anyway...”

“Okay...” Harry was still not sure he understood what that was about. A Slytherin who was willing to give you more than he absolutely had to? “Here’s your wand then. The spell’s already on it.”

He took the slender piece of pale wood out from under his belt and held it out to Draco. Draco took it, examined it for a moment and then tucked it into his sleeve with visible relief. Into his right sleeve, in a motion Harry had seen countless times, in class, in school corridors, on battle fields, black robes and fair hair flying in the wind, smirk firmly in place, a mocking light shining in his eyes...

The pang in his chest nearly made him double over, it was so unexpected. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure if this was a good idea, if he could actually deal with this situation. Of course he had had his troubles with meeting the alternate versions of people he had seen dying, but as always, when it concerned Draco, his feelings were especially extreme. Probably because of his divided feelings for the blond in the first place.

Taking a deep breath, and ignoring Draco’s slightly questioning look, he attempted a smile.

“Should we go upstairs? I doubt the house-elves have finished yet, but you can stay in my rooms until they do. It’ll be more comfortable than down here, in any case.”

Draco nodded, almost eagerly.

“Yeah, I’d like to get out of here.”

They made their way up the stairs in the teachers’ part of the castle, a part Harry hadn’t set foot in while he was a student himself but one he had gotten to know quite well during the years of the war. Draco was looking around curiously, obviously unfamiliar with this part of the castle himself, but he didn’t say anything, so Harry didn’t, either.

After a few minutes, and a few flights of stairs, they reached the corridor where Harry’s rooms were located. It was otherwise unoccupied, but McGonagall’s and Flitwick’s quarters were not far away. Harry could hear the house-elves working in the rooms down the corridor from his.

He opened his door and gestured for Draco to enter. Curious, the blond stepped through the narrow hallway into Harry’s living room and looked around. Seeing as Harry had only lived here for a couple of days, the rooms were still relatively bare. All the furnishings were from the castle itself, and since all his personal belongings had remained behind, there was not much he could fill the rooms with.

“Have a seat.” Harry gestured to the slightly worn sofa that stood next to his fireplace in his living room. “Can I get you anything? How about I call some lunch up?”

“Er... could I use your bathroom first, perhaps? I need a shower.” Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Oh. Of course. The bathroom’s this way.” He waved his hand at the door next to the one they had entered the living room through. “Towels are under the sink.”

Draco nodded. “Great, thanks. D’you perhaps have any robes I could borrow? These stink.” He made another grimace of distaste.

“Er...” Harry said, mentally cataloguing his wardrobe and only now noticing that he hadn’t even thought of buying robes. “Sorry, I don’t own any. And my Muggle clothes will be too small for you...” he added, critically studying Draco’s height. Then he noticed the dumbfounded look on Draco’s face.

“You don’t _own any_ robes?” Draco exclaimed incredulously.

“Well, I’ve only been here a couple of days,” Harry answered, sounding defensive even to his own ears. Truth be told, he felt slightly silly for not thinking of buying even a single set of robes. “And I didn’t exactly arrive with a complete wardrobe. Besides, buying _robes_ wasn’t exactly my first priority.”

“What _was_ your first priority, then?” Draco sounded as if he thought robes should have been his first priority. Well, for this vain Slytherin it probably would have been.

“Weapons. And some clothes,” Harry answered after only a moment. “Muggle clothes,” he added. “They’re better for fighting.”

Draco just shook his head. “Well, I’m not going to wear any Muggle clothes. I’d rather go naked!”

For just a moment, Harry considered the possibilities of that statement. He certainly wouldn’t _mind_ having a naked Draco around. Then again, the effects might be... uncomfortable. So, he probably should come up with another solution.

“I suppose we’ll have to ask the house-elves if they can clean your clothes while you’re under the shower. If not, you’ll have to make do with a Cleaning Charm.”

“Okay.” Draco nodded.

Harry called for Tinky, and she assured him that she would gladly clean Draco’s clothes while the blond was under the shower, “it is no problem for Tinky, Master Harry, Sir!”

So Draco went to have his shower, and, after asking Tinky to bring some lunch for them, Harry plopped down on his sofa with a sigh.

***


	11. Chapter 11

***

With a deep sigh, Draco stepped under the spray of the shower and let the hot water beat down on his face and body. Gradually, his aching muscles began to relax, releasing the tension left over from his stay in the cramped cell. He stood there with his eyes closed, trying to calm the confused thoughts and emotions running through his mind.

For a moment, he let himself drift in the rushing of the water and the warmth of the rising steam, but then his thoughts turned themselves back to the jumble his life had become.

There was still the aching emptiness in his chest, his mind, where Harry had been. For years now, since he had left school, he’d had the Gryffindor around every day, they had shared a room at the house for the last months. And now... nothing. Three days, or rather four, if one counted today, of no Harry. No laughter, no mischievous grins, no pouts, no blue eyes flashing in challenge...

Draco took a shuddering breath and leant heavily against the tiled wall. He was not crying, he told himself, the water on his cheeks came from the shower. Malfoys did not cry. Not even if their best friends died.

He turned his face up into the spray and let the tiny pinpricks of hot water wash away his sorrow for the moment.

Harry. The other Harry. A very different man from the one he had known. How could anyone _not_ think of buying robes when they were shopping for clothes anyway? And the first thing he had thought of were weapons.

A dangerous man. The way he had acted around Draco... Then again, Draco didn’t know how to act around him, either. He couldn’t treat him like his best friend, obviously, since they were virtual strangers, but then again, sometimes there was something in the way he moved, the way he looked, the way he smiled, that made Harry’s face flash before his inner eye for a moment in a similar expression or posture. For a moment he _recognized_ him, and then it was gone again, or this Harry did something completely out of character, like only thinking of buying Muggle clothes, or saying “thank you” to that _house-elf_ , or something similarly strange.

And then there was the way this Harry looked at him. Sometimes he seemed to wait for Draco to... attack him, or something, and then there were looks like the one that had flickered across his face for a moment when Draco had unthinkingly made that comment about rather going naked than wearing Muggle clothes. As if he was... considering that for real. For a moment, his eyes had darkened with, Draco hardly dared to name it, lust? Well, he _had_ said that he’d had a crush on the Draco from his world, but still...

Somehow, Draco could hardly believe that a man like _that_ would actually be interested in _him_. Usually, Draco wasn’t lacking confidence, but this man was... intimidating. He was so commanding and sure of himself. Added to that, the months in the training facility had eroded some of the confidence he had always taken for granted when he was younger. The older Death Eaters there had treated them with contempt, and they had been intimidated neither by his name nor by his money. Quite the contrary, a few of them seemed to have enjoyed it to make life as difficult as possible for Lucius Malfoy’s son. Only with Harry things had stayed the way they had always been, and now even that was gone.

Draco felt as if his very being, the very person he was, was in question. Everything that defined him seemed to have been stripped away from him, and there were the doubts...

He shook his head. He couldn’t deal with that now. Right now, all that mattered was getting through the day. If he simply lived from one day to the next, perhaps he would wake up one of those days and everything would make sense.

Decidedly, he grabbed the shampoo and started to clean his hair.

 

***

Harry relaxed back into the sofa after Draco had left for the shower. He let his eyes drift closed and exhaled deeply. Only now did he realise quite _how_ tense he had been in Draco’s company.

He really needed to talk with him. He just had no clue how to act around him, what Draco expected from him. Because it clearly wasn’t what _his_ Draco would expect. This complete lack of antagonism in the company of someone who looked like Draco Malfoy threw him completely off balance. What was he supposed to do with a Draco Malfoy he didn’t fight with? Damned if he knew.

Well, it was sort of nice, too, in a strange way. It gave him a completely new perspective of the person Draco Malfoy, not just the Death Eater who was as evil as he was sexy.

And the attraction thing was a wholly different matter. Yes, this Draco Malfoy was an attractive man. A _very_ attractive man, but looking at him didn’t give Harry quite the rush he was used to getting when he met with the man who had a starring role in most of his wet dreams. Something was missing, some kind of tension he was so used to he hadn’t even really noticed it. Harry supposed he should have expected that, after all, he didn’t share loads of painful history with this man, but fact was, he _hadn’t_ expected it. It was very confusing to look at Draco Malfoy without feeling that maelstrom of intense, conflicting emotions he associated with him. And still, he was definitely desirable.

Harry gave a sigh. Yes, they would have to talk. They would have to get to know each other all over again, because clearly this wasn’t the Draco Malfoy he was used to, and he doubted very much that he was the Harry Potter Draco was used to.

It might even be interesting, Harry considered, getting to know Draco Malfoy without all the hostility. Would they have been friends in his world, as well, if he had taken Draco’s hand back then, on his very first train ride to school? Would he have been able to turn Draco from the path towards Voldemort if he had? Or would he himself have been drawn towards the evil side of the Wizarding world? Would he have been in Slytherin? In retrospect, it might have been interesting, it might have saved lives, it might have taught him things he had had to learn the hard way later on, paid with the blood of people he had loved. But then again... it was over and done with, and all the magic in the world couldn’t change the past, at least not without risking more than any single life was worth, and in the end, being in Gryffindor had given and taught him invaluable things as well.

No, it wasn’t perfect the way things had turned out, but it was as well as could be expected. Life wasn’t easy, and one always knew better after the fact, but the only thing left to do was go on and try to do the best job he could in the future. And for now, that meant getting to know this Draco Malfoy, and perhaps, just perhaps he would have a second chance at something that could have been.

***

Tom Riddle, or, as his followers knew him, Lord Voldemort, was pacing in front of his throne, black robes swishing and billowing with every sharp turn he took.

The news he had just received was, to say the least, worrying. Not only had a stranger managed to break into one of his training facilities, without encountering any notable difficulties it seemed, but Lucius’ son had vanished, as well.

He dismissed the unlucky guard and the Death Eater who had escorted him with an impatient wave of his hand. Lucius had already been sent for.

Most worrying of all, the stranger had referred to the prophecy, and as far as Voldemort knew, he was the only one alive who knew about that. He had personally made sure that was the case. The Seer was long dead, and so was the boy who would have grown up to become a problem. So, how had that man _known_?

And who was that man, anyway? He had known what he was doing, giving the guard a message for him, Lord Voldemort.

“Tell him the prophecy can still be fulfilled. Tell him I’ll make him fall.” A worrying message indeed. It sounded as if that man felt rather personal about that matter, which was another riddle. According to the description of the guard, he had reminded him strongly of young Harry Potter, whom they had left to die after that disastrous battle at Hogwarts.

Voldemort ground his teeth. Hogwarts, of course. Trust that meddling old fool to be prepared for an attack. One had to leave it to him, he was a worthy opponent. All the slander, all the rumours Voldemort had made sure to circulate about him to damage his reputation had not been enough to remove him entirely from Hogwarts. Sure, his influence with the Ministry and the Wizengamot had suffered, but he still had people loyal to him.

Come to think of it, he would bet that old man had something to do with this stranger. It would be just the sort of rabbit he might pull out of his hat.

But _why_ would that mysterious man want him to know he was there? That he knew about the prophecy? A bluff? No, it was unlikely. Who would get the idea to bluff with a prophecy, of all things?

But the prophecy had not applied to Harry Potter. The boy was born too late. Only by a few hours, however, he remembered. The Potter boy _had_ been one of the children he had had watched. Only a few hours and the decision of a midwife had stood between the boy and death at his own hands, he recalled from the report of his spies at St. Mungo's.

But that stranger _couldn’t_ be Harry Potter, because Harry Potter was dead, he was sure of it. There was no counter for the curse that had hit him. Besides, that man at the training facility had _resembled_ Harry Potter, not looked exactly like him. Apparently, there had been notable differences.

There was only one thing left to do for him: He had to contact Severus. He didn’t like it. Since he had decided it was time for openly conquering the Wizarding world, he hadn’t contacted Severus to protect his position as spy under Dumbledore’s nose. Any unexplained absences might make the old wizard suspicious, and due to the wards it was not possible to communicate directly with Severus without Dumbledore knowing. A spy in the enemy’s camp was always useful, but he _had_ to know more about that stranger and his knowledge of the prophecy.

Lucius entered and knelt before him, head bowed as was demanded of him.

“You sent for me, my Lord?”

“Yes, Lucius. Rise.” Voldemort whirled to a stop and made an impatient motion with his hand.

Lucius rose smoothly, robes and long pale hair flowing around his form impeccably as ever. His cold grey eyes answered Voldemort’s gaze openly. Or at least, with what seemed to be openness. Voldemort was not fool enough to think a man like Lucius Malfoy would not follow his own agenda if he deemed it necessary for his own benefit. He was a prime example of a Slytherin: unscrupulous, always out for his own advantage, calculating and almost impossible to read. But he was also the proud heir of an old pureblood line, and that meant that he had certain principles he would never betray. Loyalty to the cause of advancing the superiority of purebloods was one of those principles. As long as Lucius thought that this was Voldemort’s final goal, he would stay loyal.

“I have called you to inform you that your son is missing.” Voldemort watched sharply as Lucius’ eyes widened slightly, then a mask of mild curiosity settled over his features. Ah, it seemed as if the man was truly surprised.

“What happened, my Lord?”

Voldemort took up his pacing again.

“A stranger has apparently managed to gain entrance to the building the training facility is housed in. He has not been seen leaving, but a search of the house has not turned up anything except the fact that your son is now missing as well. There might be a Portkey signature outside your son’s room, but that is not certain.

“The stranger also left a message with the guard at the entrance. He ‘came to get what he wanted’, in his own words. Since your son is now missing, it seems what he wanted was him.” Voldemort stopped abruptly again and cast a sharp look at Lucius. “Do you have any idea what might be the meaning of this?”

Lucius, for once, looked truly baffled.

“None, my Lord.”

“The stranger was reported to have some resemblance to Harry Potter.”

If anything, Lucius looked even more bewildered.

“But Harry... is dead.” He did not show any emotion in his voice, but Harry Potter had been introduced under the patronage of Lucius, even before his own son had joined them. Of course, the boy had run away from home in a singularly Gryffindor fit of temper, without ever considering the consequences. Nonetheless, Voldemort had seen quite some potential in the young man. He was rash and emotional, but he also had power and would not let anyone stand in his way. If he had lived, he could have been moulded into quite the Death Eater. Lucius had seen this as well, and brought the boy to Voldemort’s attention. He never said so, but Voldemort was certain that his follower held some affection for the Gryffindor boy.

“Yes, that is what we thought. I will have the matter investigated. However, there remains the question as to what happened to your son.”

“If he was tricked into believing this ominous stranger _was_ Harry...” Lucius started slowly.

“He might have gone with him willingly?” Voldemort enquired. “Yes, that might be possible. He would have no reason to distrust Harry. Apart from the fact that he is supposed to be dead, of course.” He shot a sharp look at Lucius.

A small frown creased the blond brows on the man’s forehead.

“Draco is no stupid child. He would not have gone unthinkingly with someone just because they looked like his friend.”

Voldemort nodded. “Ah, yes. So, there remains the possibility that he was forced to comply. I will instruct our people to keep their eyes open. If your son contacts you, report to me immediately.”

Lucius bowed deeply. “Yes, my Lord.”

“You may leave now.”

Lucius bowed again, then turned around and strode out of the room. Voldemort dropped into his throne and watched his retreating back. The reports about Draco Malfoy from his trainers had not been too favourable lately. The death of his friend had made an unfortunately big impact on the young man. He also had not yet mastered all of the Unforgiveables. He had seemed reluctant to cast the Cruciatus Curse on his classmates, and had not done so successfully yet. All of this might indicate doubts in the young man’s mind. Unlike young Harry, who had openly defied his trainers on occasion, the Malfoy heir had, on the surface, behaved completely as was expected of him.

Voldemort liked open disobedience better. It could easily be taken care of with appropriate punishment, and it did not mean that his authority was in doubt. A rebellion against his rules still acknowledged his right to make those rules. Far more dangerous were quiet doubts, festering in an impressionable young mind, which might one day lead to betrayal and defection. Now the question remained, had young Malfoy been kidnapped against his will, or had he followed on his own? Had there been a more elaborate plan in place? It did not seem as if Lucius was in any way implicated in whatever had happened, but it still remained a possibility. Lucius’ thoughts had not indicated any involvement when Voldemort had cast a quiet “Legilimens” on him, but the man might be proficient in Occlumency, meaning that this might not actually be proof of his innocence.

With a mental sigh at these unforeseen complications, Voldemort started to pass out orders to his followers to watch for any sign of Draco Malfoy, and that stranger who resembled Harry Potter. He then considered when it would be best to call for Severus. The weekend might be proficient, since Severus could then find some excuse for leaving the castle without arousing old Dumbledore’s suspicion.

***

When Draco stepped out of the shower, thankfully clean from the feeling of a day and a night of sweat and dungeon dirt, he found only his underrobes folded on the toilet seat. He looked around searchingly, but there was no sign of his robes proper. Frowning, he grabbed a towel and started drying himself off. Perhaps the house-elves needed a few more minutes.

But by the time he had finished towelling off, putting on his underrobes, taking care of his hair and brushing his teeth, there was still no sign of the rather important rest of his clothing. Unwilling to wait any longer, he called for the house-elf.

That house-elf was terribly sorry, of course she was, she better should be, but they would need a bit longer to clean up his outer robes. In the meantime, he had the choice between hiding out in the bathroom, or going and facing Harry in his underwear. Which was not a good choice at all, in his opinion.

Well, it wasn’t as if Harry had never seen him in his underrobes or less, and vice versa, but that was _Harry_ , and the man he was about to face was... NOT Harry.

With a sigh, and decidedly uncomfortable, he finally went back into the living room, because hiding out in the bathroom because he was not properly attired would be just too pathetic for words.

***

Harry opened his eyes and turned around on the sofa when he heard the bathroom door go. Draco stepped out, hair still slightly wet from the shower, and, for some reason, looking to be a bit on edge. Well, it had probably to do with the talking they were about to do. Harry made an inviting gesture to the other half of the sofa and tried to look non-threatening.

Draco sat down on the other end of the couch, as far as he could get from Harry, but slightly turned towards him. His hand fidgeted nervously with the sleeve that Harry knew hid his wand. Harry had always thought he had beautiful hands, long-fingered and elegant. Harry also noticed the way his pale hair framed his face, some strands, still wet from the shower, clinging to those high cheekbones. His face looked different with short hair, more triangular, the cheekbones higher, the chin narrower. But as beautiful as always.

A heavy, awkward silence settled over them, while Harry tried to get his thoughts back on track and Draco shifted nervously.

“Feeling better?” Harry offered finally.

Draco looked up and nodded cautiously. “Yeah, thanks.”

“No problem.”

Silence descended again.

Then Draco looked up and took a deep breath. “This is stupid!” He made an impatient gesture with his left hand that vaguely indicated the two of them.

Harry felt a small smile lift at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I guess it is, but this _is_ a strange situation, too.”

“Yeah, sure, but still... Tell me something! How did you get here, for starters?”

Harry felt himself relax at Draco’s demanding attitude. Perhaps there were some things that didn’t change. Obediently, he gave Draco a rough summary of the last few days. He intentionally left out the details, just in case there was anything in there that could hurt him. He didn’t think so, but one never knew.

***

Astonished, Draco listened to Harry’s account of what had happened to him the last few days. So, he really had been called here _explicitly_ to kill the Dark Lord? Hard as it was to believe, that seemed to be the case.

Self-consciously, Draco shifted on the sofa. He really wished those damn elves would be done with his robes. It was very awkward to sit here only half dressed next to that man. Harry’s gaze rested on him steadily, and it was a bit disconcerting. Not that he was staring, just very focused on Draco. Under different circumstances that might have been flattering, but as it were, Draco wished the man would look _elsewhere_ for at least once!

“Are you all right?” Harry asked him suddenly, his brows furrowed slightly, a puzzled expression on his face. Draco nearly choked, and cursed his fidgeting.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” he hurriedly answered. Mistake. Harry’s concerned frown deepened.

“You sure?”

“Yes!” Draco hissed a bit more vehemently than he had intended.

One of Harry’s eyebrows rose upwards, and a slightly scornful smile touched his lips.

“No need to bite my head off,” he drawled dryly, a tone of voice that Draco could not remember ever hearing from his best friend. It made him defensive.

“Just shut up, all right? It’s your fault anyway!” That last just slipped out without Draco’s permission. He couldn’t say why he felt so bothered by this Harry, he had never felt so out of balance with his best friend. But something about this man’s presence just... irked him. Now, both of Harry’s eyebrows rose.

“My fault?” he enquired, amusement coating his voice. It made Draco inexplicably more angry. Something about Harry’s calmness ticked him off. He just didn’t feel... taken seriously.

“Yes!” he answered. “Do you _have_ to wear those clothes? They’re indecent!” And somehow, Harry’s presence made him say things he really hadn’t planned on saying. But Harry, at least, looked honestly puzzled now, instead of as if he was laughing at him.

“Indecent?” he queried, looking down at himself.

“Yes! Those Muggle clothes are absolutely indecent!”

“I’m fully dressed!” Harry protested. “What the hell is so indecent about that?” At least he didn’t sound so bloody calm anymore.

Draco couldn’t help flicking his gaze over Harry’s form, sprawled on the sofa. It was true, those clothes _were_ indecent. They didn’t hide _anything_. From the way the thin material of that shirt clung to Harry’s torso to the way those... trousers stretched over the muscles of his long legs. There was even a hint of a bulge at Harry’s crotch, not that he was looking _there_ , of course! Draco felt himself blushing at the way his thoughts were wandering.

“They just are! I can see everything!” he blurted.

That damn amusement returned to Harry’s face. In fact, it looked as if he was fighting to not start laughing out loud. Draco blushed deeper.

“Where ever are you looking?” Harry drawled. “And it’s not as if I was sitting here in my underwear or anything.”

Great! _Rub it in, why don’t you?_ Draco thought viciously. He shot Harry a dark glare. Harry looked back at him, puzzled again.

“It’s not my fault those damn house-elves are so slow!” Draco burst out, hugging himself and blushing furiously. What the hell was wrong with him, he asked himself. It wasn’t like him to be so... uncomfortable about a simple matter like his clothes. It seemed the last few days were taking their toll on his composure.

Harry blinked at him cluelessly. “What are you talking about?”

“What am I...?” Draco gaped. “Oh, stop playing innocent already! It’s not as if I _wanted_ to sit here in my underrobes, you know!”

“Underrobes?” Harry asked as if he hadn’t ever heard of them before. His gaze dropped from Draco’s face to the front of his robes. It rested there a moment, and then... Harry blushed. Draco blinked.

Harry looked up at him again, a sheepish expression on his face. It was disgustingly endearing. “Sorry. I hadn’t noticed.”

Now it was Draco’s turn to blink at him cluelessly.

“You... hadn’t _noticed_?” That had to be the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever said to him. How could he not have noticed Draco was sitting here more or less half-naked?

This time it was Harry who averted his gaze. “Well, sorry! Why would I have noticed? You’re wearing robes, and they’re just as black as they were before! And no one I have ever known has worn _underrobes_ ,” he grumbled.

Draco was literally speechless. What kinds of people did this Harry know? Muggles exclusively?

“But... but what about your parents?” Harry simply raised an eyebrow again. After a moment, Draco remembered what Harry had told him the night before. “Right, sorry. But... your friends?” Harry couldn’t honestly have lived among wizards, in a _dormitory_ , for Merlin’s sake, for seven years without noticing other people’s underwear, could he?

But Harry shook his head and shrugged. “Nope. Everyone I have ever known has worn some variant of trousers and shirts or something under their robes. Well, it’s not as if I routinely associated with any purebloods.”

“What about me?” Draco finally thought to ask while he tried to get his head around the fact that Harry didn’t “associate with purebloods”. The Harry he had known had always tried to make people forget his half-blood status as best as he could. Hell, every one he _knew_ tried to be as pureblooded as possible.

“Er...” Harry’s eyes lost their focus as he seemed to call something to mind. “I wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but... no, no. White shirt and black dress slacks it was, I think.”

“ _I_ was wearing Muggle clothes?”

Harry just shrugged despite Draco’s incredulous tone. “Yeah. Death Eater robes on top, of course, but underneath it was Muggle clothes.”

Draco found that _very_ hard to imagine. Then something occurred to him.

“Hey, wait, if there were robes on top, how do you know? And what do you mean, you weren’t paying attention _at the time_?” Did that mean Harry had paid attention to his... the alternate Draco’s clothes at other times?

One of Harry’s eyebrows rose, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a mocking half-smile. It was an expression Draco was completely unfamiliar with, and in combination with the black hair and green eyes, he suddenly was aware again that he was sitting next to a stranger.

“Well,” Harry drawled, another thing Draco was not used to, “let’s say I was mostly only interested in getting you out of the clothes in question at the time, but I couldn’t help but notice what I was unbuttoning.”

Draco blinked, once, twice, then the image of Harry unbuttoning his clothes lodged itself firmly into his brain, and he blushed so hard he could feel his face burn. Hastily, he averted his gaze. Merlin, this was embarrassing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said with a sigh. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Draco looked up, into very honest green eyes, and nodded slightly. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, aware that he was still not quite rid of the blush. They sat for a moment in silence, then Harry gave a great sigh, threw up his hands, pushed himself up from the couch and started pacing.

“Damn, but this is so weird!” he exclaimed, and Draco almost had to smile, because that agitation, that inability to sit still for long, that he knew. “I don’t know how to do this.” Harry roughly scrubbed his hands through his hair, which made it stand up as if he’d been hit by lightning, and stopped pacing. The look he gave Draco was almost desperate. “I don’t know _if_ I can do this. I’m sorry.”

“Whoa! Calm down!” Draco felt something like a stab in the gut at Harry’s words. What did he mean, he didn’t know whether he could do this? Whatever “this” was. “What’s wrong? What’s the problem?”

“The problem?” Harry sounded exasperated, almost hysterical. “This-” he waved his arms around, “-this is just so... WEIRD!”

Draco found himself watching the man in front of him carefully. This was the first time that he’d seen this Harry lose his composure. Until now, he had always seemed so collected, so in control. Hell, he’d duelled Dumbledore and won, he claimed to intend to kill the Dark Lord himself, he radiated power and purpose. Yes, there had been flickers of emotion, mirth and sadness and lust, but this... Draco had the feeling that he suddenly gained a rare glimpse at the man under the façade of iron control. He wasn’t sure whether to feel privileged or worried. After all, the man was pretty damn powerful. He nodded slowly.

“Yeah, it is weird. Very weird. But, well...” he shrugged, “...we can deal with that, right?”

Harry looked at him, a long, penetrating stare that came very to close to making him squirm in his seat.

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” Harry gave a gruff little snort of laughter that held more than a little edge of bitterness, then he closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “’We’, he says. ‘We’!”

“What?! So, yeah, we don’t _exactly_ know each other, but we’re not strangers, either! And, yes, I know you’re not him and you’ll never be, but I lost my best friend, and damn it all, I _miss him_!” He hadn’t meant to say that, and there was a worrying thickness in his throat, so he continued on quickly. “And you’ve lost your lover, so I think we should at least try to get to know each other.”

Harry gave him a _very_ strange look. “He wasn’t my lover,” he said, tone so very carefully moderated it didn’t show any emotion at all.

Draco was confused. “But... you said you were in love with him. And, just now, you said... and I assumed...” Embarrassingly, Draco found himself blushing again.

For a moment Harry looked like he wanted to argue, then his agitated posture deflated slightly.

“Once,” he said softly. “We slept together once. One night. Just one.” He suddenly whirled, grabbed a glass from the coffee table and hurled it against the wall, where it broke with a loud smash, leaving a wet splatter on the wall. Pieces of glass rained down onto the floor and a shivering wave of power rolled through the room, rattling the furniture and the window panes.

“I HATE HIM!” Harry bellowed. “I HATE that bastard SO BLOODY MUCH! I HOPE HE ROTS IN HELL, I HOPE HE’S SCREAMING IN AGONY, I HOPE THEY’RE BURNING HIS FLESH OFF HIS BONES INCH BY INCH DOWN THERE!” He whirled back around to face Draco, who had shrunk back into the couch at the sudden, unexpected display of violence. For a moment he looked into eyes that seemed to burn and flicker with intensity, eyes almost beyond sanity with emotion, then Harry’s aggressive stance softened again, his shoulders drooped, and he let himself fall back down into the couch in a graceless slump, face buried in his hands and elbows on his knees. Draco felt oddly relieved, though rather shaky.

He swallowed past his dry throat, at a loss as to what to do.

“It hurts so damn much,” came Harry’s voice, hoarse and muffled by his hands. With a start, Draco wondered whether the man might be crying. “ _Why_? Why did he come? Why couldn’t he just leave me alone? Why did he have to show me what I was missing, what we could have been?” He raised his head to look at Draco. His eyes were wide and desperate, but thankfully dry. “Why did he have to kill my best friend? Why did he die?”

“I don’t know,” Draco answered softly, helpless in the face of the pain and despair he saw in that face that was almost his best friend’s.

Harry blinked, then he took a breath, and Draco could practically see him pull all the emotions back into himself, packing them away, arranging his shields again. His eyes lost that desperate look and seemed to focus back on Draco, and a rueful half-smile quirked one corner of his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “It’s basically our first conversation, and I dump my shitty issues on you. Sorry.”

Draco shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “It’s okay. I guess we’ll have to deal with them, seeing as I’m his alternate personality.”

Harry nodded slowly, and they regarded each other for a moment in silence, assessing each other. Draco could feel a slight answering smile twist his lips.

“The two of you were pretty messed up, though, weren’t you?” he couldn’t help asking, trying to make his tone light.

Harry gave a surprised little snort. “Oh, you have no idea. We were so completely fucked-up... You could define ‘dysfunctional’ with us. Drove each other up the walls for as long as we knew each other.”

“So... how did you meet?”

And with that, they managed to finally fall into a cautious but tentatively friendly conversation, exchanging stories about their childhood and school days, carefully exploring the differences in their lives.

***


	12. Chapter 12

They talked for several hours, until the early darkness of spring fell and it was time for dinner. At one point, a house-elf had popped in with Draco’s cleaned robes, and, blushing slightly, he’d quickly wrapped the garment around him. Afterwards, Harry noted that Draco _did_ seem more relaxed.

They decided to eat dinner together as well, and then Draco took his leave to examine his new quarters.

The door to the quarters had been moved to connect to Harry's living room rather than the corridor, both to keep Draco from wandering about the school and to keep anyone from getting too curious about where the door led to. To Harry’s astonishment, Draco hadn’t even commented on his de-facto prisoner status. Of course, he wasn’t _officially_ a prisoner, his confinement was as much for his own protection as for that of others, but still, he was a Death Eater in the castle and Harry had the distinct impression that the rest of the occupants were reasonably wary. He’d discussed the arrangements with Dumbledore, and those members of the Order who were living in the castle knew about Draco’s presence, but in essence, the Slytherin was his responsibility. Harry just hoped he was up for it.

He took a deep breath and decided to go for a walk. He needed some fresh air to clear his head. The Astronomy Tower sounded like a good destination.

***

With a sigh, Harry rested his crossed forearms on the battlements, looking up at the night sky above. The wind, cool, yet carrying a hint of warm, wet earth and new leaves - the indefinable scent of spring - washed over his face, ruffled his hair. For a while, Harry just stood there, looked up at the sky, let that vast darkness draw him in, occupy all of his mind, not thinking, not feeling anything besides the solid stone under his boots and arms and the wind brushing against his body. It was silent, and peaceful.

In the end, of course, his thoughts returned to a certain blond, grey-eyed Slytherin. So similar, yet so different. He wondered if he would get used to it, if he _could_.

It was so strange, talking to that man without the jibes and sneers and insults. Just... neutral. Maybe even cautiously friendly. As hard as it was to believe, they really seemed to have been friends in this reality. Close friends, even. The way Draco reacted to him, with that easy familiarity he adopted whenever he relaxed and forgot they didn’t know each other, certainly spoke for that. And Harry discovered that Draco could really be decent company. Nice, even. Oh, he was demanding, down-right bossy and bratty at times, yet strangely vulnerable, almost shy, at others. Harry realized he didn’t really know the _person_ Draco Malfoy. And one night of sex didn’t change that. It had been good sex, yes, maybe they had even made love, and they had talked, yes, something which they never really had done before. But for all that, one night wasn’t very much, not if one considered the ten years they had known each other. He knew the Death Eater Draco Malfoy, all too well. He knew the obnoxious school kid from the rival house. He even knew the man flirting with him, in their own, twisted way. But he didn’t know the person hiding behind all those masks. But, perhaps, he could get to know that person. Even if it wasn’t exactly the same. It was Draco Malfoy as he _could have been_. Not what he became, but still, in some essential things, they were alike.

His cloak caught a gust of wind, flapped, then fell back again to his side. Briefly, his side and shoulder was exposed to the night air, pressing cold against the thin cloth of his shirt. He decided to go back inside.

***

At breakfast the next morning, Dumbledore informed the present Order members and Harry to meet down in the dungeons after dinner for a long-due Order meeting.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what he expected, but when he entered the room, he was astonished at the number of people milling around. With a start, he realized that this must be the full Order of the Phoenix. He had never seen it like this.

In his own reality, almost half of the first generation of Order members had been dead before he even knew of the existence of the Order, and hence he had never met them. As for the younger, his own, generation...

Only now did he realize how they had been reduced in number through the years of war. While he missed every familiar face with painful acuity, the over-all effect had been so gradual that it had never consciously registered in his mind how they needed fewer and fewer chairs, smaller tables, smaller rooms... How the group assembled for a full meeting had grown smaller and smaller, until barely a handful, the hard core was left before the final battle. He didn’t want to imagine what it would be like in his own reality now. Not that they still needed to hold Order meetings...

He let his eyes roam around the room, trying to distinguish between strange and familiar faces.

There seemed to be fewer members his age than he was used to. No Dean, no Seamus, no Neville. No Padma, no Luna... Instead, there were a lot of adults, most of whom he didn’t know. He estimated that he might be able to name about a third of the people in the room, which was frankly ridiculous, considering he had been the effective leader of the Order for the past couple of years. True, Albus had remained leader in name, but with the toll the war had taken on him, he had mostly restrained himself to an advisory position, while Harry, Ron and Hermione had handled the every-day necessities.

His eyes landed on a little group of people, standing to one side. He recognized Lily first, by her unmistakeable red hair. It was a darker shade than the Weasley red he was accustomed to, not the Gryffindor-house-colour, fire-engine red with golden highlights. Instead, it shaded more into burgundy, auburn tones, but it was still very much a give-away. Where Lily was James usually wasn’t far, and, sure enough, it took Harry only a second glance to recognize the man who had his back to Harry’s position by the door.

The other two members of the group seemed familiar, too, but Harry couldn’t quite place them. It was the smile of the man talking to James that made the obvious penny drop. The bright flash of teeth, the unrestrained lighting up of his whole face...

Harry had to clutch the doorframe for support, feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach by a thestral.

Sirius. His godfather. Alive and better than he had ever seen him. Gone was the haggard frame, the haunted look, the lines carved deeply into his face by twelve years in Azkaban.

This man was bursting with health, face clean-shaven and smooth, lines of laughter around his eyes, body muscular and well-fed. This man was attractive and confident... and sane.

Harry had long since realized what he didn’t see so clearly when he was still a teenager: That Azkaban had not only left its mark on Sirius’ body. The rashness, the quick mood-swings, the almost frantic way of every motion... the way Sirius had always seemed to brim with energy, barely contained, barely able to sit still... All these might have been traits inherent to him, but they had been exaggerated by Azkaban beyond normalcy, and, in the end, to a lethal degree.

Seeing this healthy, whole man before him now, that was more clear than ever.

And while he was still trying to rationalize the fact that he hadn’t recognized the only man he had ever regarded as almost a father (‘ _You haven’t seen him for over five years. He’s actually been dead for longer than you knew him! He’s changed, he looks so different.._.’) his eyes slid to the fourth person, standing almost with the back to him, his face just barely visible in profile. Smaller than the others, even Lily, slighter, shoulders narrower, hair a nondescript mousy brown... Or rather, rat-brown.

Peter Pettigrew, as alive and well as the others, and _standing right there_.

Fury, raw as he hadn’t felt it in a while, rose inside of him, and his grip on the doorframe tightened until Harry thought either his knuckles or the wood should split.

There was too much emotion kicked loose by these familiar yet unfamiliar faces, and he had to get out of here.

Barely seeing where he was going, Harry strode out of the room again, head down and trying to regulate his breathing. He brushed by someone, but kept going without looking up until he was a few paces down the corridor, the murmur of voices from the meeting softening into an indistinct background hum.

He rested his forearms and his forehead against the cool, rough stone wall and tried to regain some semblance of control over his raging emotions. For the last couple of days since he had arrived here, he had mostly managed to stay distracted by all the differences and by remaining active to refrain from brooding and keep his emotional responses subdued enough to remain functional, apart from his one little breakdown. But now he realized that he hadn’t faced the full challenge of this yet.

Meeting his parents was weird, but as he had never known them, it was like getting to know strangers. The weirdness came mostly from the fact that they knew the alternate _him_ and sometimes treated him with a familiarity that he felt wasn’t quite appropriate.

Severus was so much himself that Harry suspected that things were just the other way round: He treated Severus as the companion he’d had for years without even noticing while Severus felt awkward with the unexpected familiarity.

With Albus, it felt like meeting a younger version of the man he had known, even though both of them were the same age, of course.

Draco... Draco was hard, he acknowledged. Again, it was sometimes like meeting a younger version, but then there was also this unusual familiarity from him. And, of course, the familiarity he _expected_ wasn’t there at all. This Draco and Harry’s alternative version had been _friends_ , for Merlin’s sake!

Harry found it almost impossible to wrap his mind around the concept of a Draco Malfoy who was _friends_ with anyone. Draco had minions, he had body-guards, he had enemies, certainly, and family and a master. He had associates, fellow Death Eaters, partners-in-crime and victims. He didn’t have friends. And yet... this Draco did. It raised a host of questions Harry was not very comfortable with.

Did that mean ‘his’ Draco had had the potential to have friends, too? Did that mean things could have been different? Did it mean it didn’t have to end in blood and gore and death and horror? Did it mean there was actually a person, a decent person, a likeable person, beneath all the masks? Did it mean Harry didn’t have to ask himself anymore, in the dark corners of his mind, why he was in love with a monster?

Harry took a deep breath, heard it come out almost like a sob, as he shoved all those old fears back again, and tried to clear his head enough to be able to go into that meeting without having a mental breakdown. Or killing Wormtail.

His hands, balled into fists already, tightened against the wall. The bottomless pit of grief inside of him had opened up again, the grief he had thought dealt with, accepted, gone, moved on... Apparently he hadn’t, not as much as he thought. He suspected he would have been okay... if he had never seen Sirius again, the way things were supposed to be. But seeing him like this, this... unscathed... It made him grieve even more for Sirius as he had known him, not only for his death, but also for his life. For twelve years spent in Azkaban, innocent. For the relationship they should have had, not two years of letters and desperately intense days, furtive and hidden, when circumstances allowed them to see each other. He had loved Sirius, deeply, desperately, but he had barely known the man. It had taken him years to accept this truth, that love wasn’t the same as understanding, or trust. Love didn’t make everything all right. Love didn’t make Sirius any less a bully, or any more sane. Love didn’t mean he had to excuse the failings of the people he loved. Severus had been quite adamant about making him see this. Of course, then Harry had arrived at the conclusion that just because people had their failings, this didn’t mean he couldn’t love them and their good parts. Severus hadn’t been all that happy with that epiphany, naturally. Sirius had always been a sore subject between them, no matter how much else they found to agree on.

And now he had to face Sirius again, and the man who was to blame for his fate in Harry’s world. Wormtail. Harry felt his lips twist into a snarl of loathing and disgust. There were few people he hated to this extent. Bellatrix. Voldemort. Sometimes Draco. But... he couldn’t just storm in and accuse the man. Or kill him. No matter how much his instincts were screaming at him to do just that.

But he was willing to give Draco a chance. These people were willing to give _him_ a chance. In turn, he couldn’t just judge the man for something his alternate self had done. On the other hand, he didn’t feel comfortable doing nothing. After all, if the man had once become a traitor, he _could_ become one again. Maybe... yes, Harry thought it would be best if he warned Albus in private. That way, if Pettigrew turned out to be innocent, his reputation wouldn’t suffer, but someone else would be keeping an eye on him, just in case.

There was the sound of familiar steps coming to a halt behind him, but it took the voice for him to recognize Severus.

“Mr Potter. What _are_ you doing?” The question was ironic, but surprisingly mild.

For one moment, all Harry wanted to do was turn around and grab onto Snape’s robes and get a hug. He _really_ needed one. Severus, though, would certainly hex him if he did that. Hell, the Severus he’d worked with for years would have hexed him if he did it. But he might have squeezed his shoulder, which was as good as a hug from him, and considering how overwhelmed his emotional state already was, the sudden pang of longing wasn’t helping any.

“It was just,” Harry answered without turning around and gestured vaguely down the corridor with one hand, “a bit much.” He took several deep breaths and tried to collect himself. He was _not_ going to start bawling like a baby in the middle of a corridor, in front of Severus Snape, of all people.

***

Severus watched as the young man in front of him visibly pulled himself together. It was astonishing really, considering the obvious emotional upheaval he’d been in. This most certainly wasn’t the Harry Potter Severus had taught and loathed for four years. This wasn’t the spoilt, undisciplined brat Draco had had the bad taste of befriending. Severus had never felt anything but disdain for James’ son. Where he had to credit Potter senior with at least a modicum of intelligence (not that he would ever admit to that!) and Lily was actually a very agreeable person despite being a Gryffindor, their son had had no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Certainly, he was disgustingly powerful, but he had never shown the intelligence, nor the patience, nor the _will_ to develop his abilities in any meaningful way. And if Severus hated anything, it was wasted potential.

 _This_ Harry Potter, however... This Harry Potter had control. His defeat of Dumbledore had shown that if nothing else. He also had shown himself capable of hard work, discipline and intelligent, rational thought. Severus didn’t quite like to admit it, but he was intrigued. There was, of course, also the question of just what, exactly, the relationship of his own alternate incarnation to this young man had been. There was a familiarity, a trust, in the way Potter acted towards him that he would never have expected.

Control restored, features calm once again, those unfamiliar green eyes met his gaze. Potter inclined his head slightly towards the direction of the meeting room.

“Shall we?” His voice, too, was quiet and smooth again. Remarkable, indeed.

Severus nodded his acceptance and fell into step beside Potter. It was comfortable. He didn’t have to hurry, or slow down. Their speed matched perfectly-- too perfect for people unused to walking together. A side-ways glance showed a relaxed profile, Potter’s eyes distant, focus on something inside his mind. Definitely not on their walk, or Severus’ presence at all. Trust, again.

It hadn’t escaped Severus’ notice how Potter automatically scanned people to determine where they kept their wands, how they moved, how much of a threat they were. How his eyes catalogued windows and doors, layouts, obstacles and possible cover when he entered a room. How his fingers brushed against knife grips and wand handle, adjusted cloak and weapon-belt periodically, assuring himself everything was in order. It was all quick, fleeting, instinctual. He doubted anyone but a well-trained Auror would recognize these signs of someone for whom fighting, survival, was as much an everyday matter as walking and talking.

All the more telling was it that Potter paid his presence so little heed. He fell into old, deeply ingrained patterns, that much was obvious. It only made Severus more curious for that conversation Potter had promised him.

***

The Order meeting trudged on, boring as Order meetings were wont to be. Harry slouched in his chair, trying to get comfortable after sitting still for too long. So far, he had mostly listened, tried to stay in the background and sound out the dynamics in this version of the Order. Currently, he really felt like the stranger he was. He didn’t know a lot of the adults, and those he knew he didn’t know well. Most of them had been dead before or shortly after he joined up back home, not enough time spent together to build more than a passing acquaintance. The glances he had received when he’d entered the room had for the most part been wary and suspicious, even more so probably since he’d entered in the company of Snape, the Death Eater spy.

It was a very uncomfortable feeling, and one he wasn’t used to, this distrust. He remembered feeling like this when he was young, back in school when the papers had discredited him as insane and when everyone thought he was Slytherin’s heir back in his second year. But for years now, people had looked to him for guidance, for hope, for leadership. For years, he’d relied on Ron and Hermione’s unwavering support, always flanking him, always looking out for him, the first people he’d been close to and the last he’d lost.

Harry blinked, and internally shook off the maudlin thoughts and focused back on the meeting. Now was not the time, and if there was distrust and wariness in so familiar features as McGonagall’s and Molly’s, well, he would just have to deal.

Finally, the Order members had exhausted themselves with reports and stories about atrocities committed by Death Eaters all over the country, and the reactions of wizards and witches to them. To Harry it all sounded... normal, tame even. Sure, people were dying. Sure, that was horrible. But as far as he was concerned, there was no real crisis, no “if we lose this battle, we lose the war”, no “this group of Death Eaters has to be stopped before they exterminate us all”. There was no reason for panic, not this throbbing sense of urgency in the back of his head.

But from the pale faces, the pinched lips, the tone of forced control in the voices, he concluded that he was alone in that estimation. Everyone else seemed pretty freaked out by the state of things.

There was a short pause as silence descended on the table after the last report was given. Dumbledore looked grave now, the twinkle gone from his eyes. Then he lifted his head, and let his eyes sweep along the table, holding everyone’s eyes for a small moment before moving on.

“The extent of these attacks is indeed grave news,” he spoke up after he was sure he had everyone’s attention. “However, I also have an announcement to make which is both good and bad news.”

Harry felt himself come awake again in the short pause, the silence thick enough to hear the proverbial pin drop.

“The Ministry has, as of today, officially declared Wizarding Great Britain to be at war. Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, has been declared an enemy of the state and rogue. A price of 20,000 Galleons will be awarded to whoever brings him into Ministry custody, dead or alive.”

Harry blinked at the old man, surprised, while soft murmurs and hisses rose around him. Dumbledore held up his hands in a gesture asking for quiet.

“I know this is shocking for all of us. While we have been aware of the threat for a long time now, it means we have failed in preventing things from getting this far out of hand, and the official acknowledgement by the Ministry will likely cause panic rather than reassurance. However, it also means that Riddle is finally being taken seriously by the authorities, which gives us more ground to act on. And while the existence of the Death Eaters as an organisation has not yet been officially confirmed, the declaration of Riddle as an outlaw means that everyone who can be proven to be in league with him will face criminal charges.”

“Excuse me,” Harry spoke up, and everyone’s eyes turned on him. Some people looked as if they might have forgotten he was there. “Does that mean that if I had killed Voldemort before today, I would have had to face charges?”

The idea seemed entirely ludicrous to him. Charges for killing Voldemort? Voldemort actually being considered a person, within the law? As long as he had been in the Wizarding world, no one had ever expressed any qualms about killing the madman, only doubts about Harry’s ability to actually do it. But, now that he thought about it, Tom Riddle, at least, had once been a citizen of Wizarding Britain, and so had the same rights and duties as everyone else. Harry wondered when that had changed. Certainly not in _his_ lifetime.

There were several disbelieving mutters around the table at his mention of killing Voldemort, but Harry kept his attention on Dumbledore, whose eyebrows rose at his question.

“Why, yes, of course... Harry.” The old man was getting better, Harry had to give him that.

“Someone might have considered telling me that,” he muttered rebelliously.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Snape, next to whom he had taken a seat, turn his head slightly and raise an eyebrow at him, while Dumbledore gave a surprised blink. Most of the Order members were looking at him now, and Harry found it hard to read their expressions. None of them looked particularly happy, but whether that was due to him or the general situation, and what exactly their problem with him was, he couldn’t tell. Snape’s solid, black presence next to him was inordinately comforting.

Harry wasn’t _used_ to feeling so out of his depth, so much like an outsider, at Order meetings. He had, after all, spent a good part of the last five years in just such meetings. Sure, the first couple he’d been to had had this awkward feeling, when he was still a gangly, insecure, inexperienced teenager. But that was _years_ ago. Again, a sharp stab of longing shot through him when he thought about how much he would give to have Ron and Hermione here with him now. There wasn’t much he was afraid of facing with them at his side. But their alternate versions were sitting diagonally across the table from him, as far away as they could get, in a clump of Weasleys and Marauders. Ron was sitting at one end of that cluster, at the short side of the large table, where it faded into Aurors, and Hermione was at the other end, on the long side, between Lily and the rest of the teachers. Harry found himself at the corner of the misfits, with Snape on one side and Mundungus Fletcher on his other. Maybe it wasn’t surprising that these seats had still been available when Snape and he had come in. On the positive side, they were closest to the door. Still, Harry felt very out of place for a moment, and wistfully remembered the times when he would have belonged into the middle of that cluster of Gryffindors across from him.

“Ah, Albus,” one of the adults, sitting next to Kingsley Shacklebolt, spoke up after giving a pretentious little cough. “I know you told us this boy was brought here by this spell you were working on” -he waved a hand around vaguely,- “but there was never any mention of _killing_.”

Harry, busy suppressing a contemptuous sneer at the pompous manner, blinked, and blinked again.

“Firstly, I’m right here. You have something to say, say it to me. Secondly, I’m not a boy, thank you very much. Thirdly, if killing isn’t to your tastes, what, pray tell, do you suggest we do to get rid of this pesky Dark Lord problem we seem to be having?”

Okay, so maybe he hadn’t succeeded so well in hiding his instant dislike.

The man goggled at him as if his kneazle had just started talking back to him, then visibly pulled himself together.

“I would suggest” -he tried his hand at a disdainful sneer, but frankly, Draco had done better when he was twelve,- “that we arrest Thomas Riddle like the criminal he is and have him stand a proper trial and conviction. It will serve immensely to calm the general public, and it is the _civilized_ thing to do. Killing indiscriminately, after all, is what _Death Eaters_ do.”

The narrow glare he shot at Harry said clearly who he felt should feel addressed by that. If he hoped to provoke a reaction from Harry, however, he was in for a long wait.

Harry merely levelled a cool look back. “I see. Well, then I suppose you should go out there and tell Voldemort that he’s under arrest. I’m sure he’ll come quietly if you ask nicely enough.”

There was a general shifting and rustling around the room, Harry noticed out of the corner of his eye, since he was not about to take his eyes of his opponent. Obviously, the rest of the Order wasn’t comfortable with the confrontation taking place.

“Now, now,” Dumbledore interrupted before the rapidly reddening man could come up with a retort to Harry’s facetious comment. “Let’s remember we’re all on the same side here. Harry, I understand your concerns, but please keep in mind that things here have not quite deteriorated as far as in your own world yet. I’m sure there’s no need for sarcasm.”

Dumbledore bestowed him with one of his mildly reproving looks, but Harry merely let it slide off him. He was no schoolboy to be reprimanded for his manners. If he felt like being a sarcastic bastard, he would damn well do so. The only person who could reprimand him and make him feel even remotely guilty, was Hermione, and she wasn’t here. At least not the one whose opinion he cared about.

After a moment, Dumbledore seemed to realize that his gentle rebuke had no effect whatsoever, so he turned back to the discussion at hand.

“Thaddeus, while I agree with you in principle, I’m afraid that the time for civility seems to have passed. I fear Tom will indeed not be stopped by anything besides death. He has made it abundantly clear, in these last months, that he does not consider himself bound by our laws any longer. Therefore, if anyone has a chance to stop him... permanently, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to take it, if you can. No one here will be forced to commit any action that is against your personal code of morals, but let’s not forget that we are now officially at war, and sadly, the laws we are used to no longer apply as they did before.”

Harry suppressed a contemptuous snort, told himself sternly that these people _hadn’t_ lived through the war yet, not even the First War, and let Dumbledore smooth the waves.

Broodingly, he leaned back in his chair again, arms crossed, and watched as Dumbledore wrapped the meeting up, not caring much about how defensive he looked, or the various side-long glances he saw shot at him.

***

Once the meeting concluded, Harry was the first one out of the room. He didn’t get very far before Snape caught up with him with long, crisp strides.

“Potter.” The tilt of Snape’s head looked almost respectful, and his voice was carefully neutral. Harry looked at him askance.

“I believe you still owe me a conversation. Shall we commence to the dungeons?”

 _Oh hell, yes!_ was Harry’s immediate first thought. Thankfully, he managed to restrain himself before the words slipped out and instead he gave his assent in slightly less emphatic tones. He could feel some of the tension draining out of his shoulders, however. This was just what he needed, the familiar, soothing surroundings of Snape’s quarters, and the company of a snarky, acerbic Slytherin he could trust.

Harry was aware that this world was getting to him more and more. Which, really, he should have expected. The last months had been fraught with the singular tension that only a siege brought, and he had had no time to come down from that, never mind the last battle, before he had ended up here. Hell, he had been so involved in the war for so long that he didn’t really know what to do with himself right now, without some constant demand on his attention. He had been content enough to drift along for the last few days, trying to somehow gain a foothold in this new world, but the shock and tension was wearing off, and he found he did not know what to do without them.

Things were catching up with him he hadn’t even thought an issue, or long dealt with, like Sirius. Yes, Harry thought with an internal sigh, he needed to relax, dearly.

Actually, what he needed were his friends, but since he couldn’t have them, a mostly familiar Snape was the next best thing. It worried him that it had never entered his head that he would come face to face with Sirius, and Pettigrew. He should have anticipated the possibility, with everything he knew about this world, and considered his likely emotional response. It showed that his judgement and forethought were seriously impaired, dangerously so. That was not a situation he was comfortable with. Hopefully, an evening in Snape’s company would help him get his head on straight again.

***


	13. Chapter 13

Simply entering Snape’s living room made layers of tension melt from Harry's shoulders. With a grateful sigh, he sank into an armchair in front of the fireplace and stretched out his legs, leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. The dry warmth of the wood fire soaked into his bones, whispering of safety and comfort.

When he opened his eyes again, Snape was standing next to the other armchair, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. Harry felt himself colouring a little. He supposed he wasn’t quite supposed to feel ―and behave― this at home here. He gave Snape a minimal, sheepish shrug in apology, and after another slightly narrowed look, Snape took his seat across the fire from Harry.

“Would you care for some tea?” Snape asked, continuing his impression of politeness. That was a little disconcerting, Harry thought. While he knew Snape’s predilection to stiff formality, politeness had never been a concern between them.

“I’d rather something stronger, if you don’t mind,” Harry answered. “It’s not quite bad enough for the absinthe,” he joked at Snape’s questioning eyebrow. “But some of your Firewhisky wouldn’t go amiss.”

“You seem to know the contents of my liquor cabinet quite well,” Snape observed dryly as he Summoned the bottle and two glasses from across the room.

“We certainly had enough opportunities to need a stiff drink,” Harry replied with a shrug. Taking the glass Snape held out to him, he felt a half-forgotten tingle of delight run through him. Back in the first year of his training, this gesture had been Snape’s wordless way of letting him know that he had done well. Years later, when a glass in front of the fireplace had become a more common occurrence, Harry had still never lost that feeling of something special, of pride and accomplishment when his fingers took the cool glass out of Snape’s hand, the pungent smell of alcohol stroking along his tongue. He had never consciously remembered how much this little ritual had meant to him after Snape’s death, until now.

Harry took a small sip and let the liquid burn its way down his throat, before tucking his feet up, curling up in the armchair around his precious glass of whiskey.

“Well, then,” Snape said, breaking the silence after a few moments, “what is this complicated history between you and me?”

Harry sighed. He thought back, and told Snape about how they had started out, how Snape used to belittle and insult him when he was a kid, for his lack of Potions skills, his house, his parents, his fame...

Snape’s brow furrowed at that.

“You were famous?” he asked. “At twelve?”

Harry blinked at him for a moment, then felt like banging his head against the wall. He would _never_ get used to this!

“Eleven,” he corrected Snape. “And, yes, I was. I was famous since I was eighteen months old and Voldemort killed my parents. I though Albus told you all that?”

“He didn’t mention you being famous,” Snape retorted dryly. “Why would you be, anyway? I though it was your mother’s sacrifice that saved your life and apprehended the Dark Lord.”

“It was,” Harry agreed, “but not many people knew about that. What most people knew that there was war for eleven years and no end in sight, with Voldemort killing people left and right, and then suddenly, he failed to kill a baby, and was gone from one day to the next. So they turned me into a bloody symbol of hope and what-not. ‘The Boy Who Lived’.” He grimaced. He would never stop hating that nickname.

The sceptical eyebrow made a reappearance. “With all that fuss, how did you manage to grow up _not_ a spoiled brat?”

“Well, _I_ didn’t know,” Harry grumbled. “With my parents dead, Dumbledore decided to leave me with my only living relatives, my mother’s Muggle sister and her family- exactly _because_ he didn’t want me to grow up famous before I could even walk and talk. Also, through my mother’s sacrifice, I would be protected from vengeful Death Eaters and the like as long as I stayed with her blood.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, the Dursleys weren’t exactly thrilled to take me in. They hate magic, so they didn’t tell me anything. I found out I was a wizard when my Hogwarts letter arrived.”

Snape nodded his understanding, and Harry got back on track of his tale.

He told Snape about the end of his fifth year, that turning point in his life and in the war, the first time he had really lost someone he loved. Then, of course, he had to backtrack and explain about the events in his third year, and then yet further to the details of the circumstances under which his parents died. Snape looked downright shocked (for him, at least) when he heard about how Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban, and how the Marauders had basically been destroyed that night twenty years ago.

“That’s what hit me so hard this evening at the meeting,” Harry confessed, indicating his drink. “Somehow... I didn’t realize I would face... _him_. And Pettigrew,” he added, unable to keep the growl out of his voice.

“You really did care for Black, didn’t you?” Snape asked, only a slight sneer in his voice when he spoke the name. “Yet you had hardly time to get to know him, no?”

Harry sighed, and nodded.

“Yes, I did care for him... loved him. When we first met, and after all the misunderstandings had been taken care of, he asked me whether I wanted to come live with him.” Harry gave a dry chuckle, almost pure humour, almost without bitterness. “I said yes, of course, immediately.” He chanced a look at Snape, whose features, naturally, were composed to hide his thoughts. “Sirius was the first adult who ever expressed any desire to have me around, to take me in.” Harry shrugged. “It was... new, and I was young, so I latched on to him. It took me years to admit he wasn’t perfect, especially after he died. Which didn’t help our... working relationship any,” he added dryly.

“From what you have told me so far, I find myself astonished that we did ever develop a ‘working relationship’,” Snape observed.

Harry felt his lips quirk up in a slight grin. “So true. Those first three months after the war started...” He shook his head at the memories. “It still amazes me that we both survived that. There was yelling... and screaming... and cursing...”

“I... _screamed_ at you?” Snape raised a sceptical eyebrow. “While your alternate self was certainly an annoying brat” ―and there was the familiar smirk Harry was used to; the only unfamiliar thing about it was that it wasn’t directed at him― “I find it hard to believe I would lose control like _that_.”

“Oh, the yelling and screaming went both ways, believe me,” Harry assured the man, and took another sip from his glass, enjoying this conversation even more than he had expected, despite the memories it called to mind.

“The cursing not so much... but believe me, I was a _terrible_ teenager.” He felt his lips curl into a self-deprecating smile. “Not only was I moody and touchy with the best of them, I had also just learned about the prophecy that said I had to, _had_ to, be the one to fight Voldemort, _and_ lost the only person I had ever considered family. For which, to make matters worse, I blamed _you_ in large parts.” He swung the bottom of his glass in Snape’s direction.

“How so?” Snape asked, cocking his head in puzzlement. Harry shrugged, and took another small sip before explaining about the scene in Umbridge’s office.

“Of course you went and alerted the Order as soon as you could,” he concluded. “And of course you couldn’t give me a sign that might tip _her_ off, but I preferred not to take that into account, and make my hated Potions professor the scapegoat for losing my godfather.” Harry sighed and pressed the glass against his forehead for a moment, enjoying the chill of the magically cooled alcohol. No ice-cubes to water down the flavour for a wizard, of course. “Truthfully, I mostly blamed myself, but I didn’t really want to... admit that, I guess, so I was _extremely_ touchy when it came to the subject of Sirius. And since insulting him is about as natural as breathing to you...”

“You... _yelled_ at me?” Snape wanted to know, sounding almost impressed. “Your professor?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah. Yelled, screamed, threw things...” He vaguely waved a hand about. “As for you being a professor, I’ve never been particularly bothered by authority.” Harry grinned, and Snape gave him a look as if he believed at least that. “It didn’t help that in some regards, we’re just too much alike.” At that, Harry had the rare opportunity to see Severus Snape almost swallow his Firewhisky the wrong way. He had to chuckle at the disbelieving stare he received once Snape had managed to not burn his lungs out.

“Oh, yes, we are.” Harry gave a decisive nod. “We both have a horrible temper, and if someone prods the wrong sore point, we see red and let fly. We’re also both too proud and stubborn for our own good. Put us together, me in full teenager-mode and you stressed out from full-time spying again... Not a good combination.”

“So how did we ever overcome our... differences?”

Harry couldn’t help the smile at hearing their vicious altercations called “differences”.

“I don’t really know,” he admitted. “After a couple of months, things just started to get a bit better. Maybe it was just impossible to keep up that level of heated antagonism when we saw each other every day.” He shrugged. “I don’t know your alternate self’s perspective. We never talked about it. But in hindsight, I think I started to get a handle on my grief after those first months. Maybe the fighting even did me good, let me express my anger and frustration... I don’t know. But I got to know you, and at some point I realized you really couldn’t have done anything but what you did, and also, in having to defend myself from you, I realized _I_ did what I could. No matter what anyone said, no matter even what I thought myself, I really didn’t handle the situation that badly. I didn’t _know_ that Voldemort would have a reason to want me in the Department of Mysteries. I _did_ expect a trap, just not the one that was there. I checked whether Sirius was home. How could I ever have anticipated a house-elf lying to me?

“No” ―he shook his head― “I couldn’t have done anything but what I did. I couldn’t risk the vision being true and Sirius being tortured, I just couldn’t. I tried to alert others, but with the usual lack of success. And still... if Sirius hadn’t been a stir-crazy idiot, it would all have worked out for the best.” The memories made him morose, and he took another sip of his whisky to burn them away. “It wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault but Voldemort’s and Bellatrix’s. And I learned that sometimes, there’s just nothing you can do in war. People just die.

“And after I calmed down about Sirius, I started to see other things, too― what a toll spying took on you; how hard you worked to end the war; how little appreciation you got for it. Believe it or not, but I knew about never being good enough, trying to prove yourself. I knew about being bullied and having to fend for yourself. So” ―he shrugged again― “I started see past that grumpy façade of yours.” He gave Snape a little smile, and got a mild glower in return which just made his smile brighten. “I guess I grew up a bit, learned that the world isn’t black and white, good or evil. It was still a long way from how close we ended up being, but it was a start.”

“Oh? And how close did we end up being?” Snape asked.

“Partners, I guess is the best word for it,” Harry mused. “You were my friend, my mentor, my companion...”he shot a look at Snape from under his lashes, “... my lover.”

Snape’s eyes bugged out in a moment of complete shock, and he choked on the sip of whisky he’d just taken (and which Harry had not timed his little revelation with, no, not at all...) Harry couldn’t help himself, he started laughing out loud.

“ _That_ ,” Snape rasped after he had stopped coughing his lungs out, though he was still uncharacteristically red, “is not something you should joke about!”

“Oh, I wasn’t joking,” Harry informed him with a lazy smirk.

“You were laughing,” Snape retorted. Harry shrugged, and felt the smirk widen.

“Well, it’s not everyday I can get the better of you like that.”

“You were not joking?”

“Nope.” Harry shook his head. “You taught me most of what I know in battle, and everything I know in bed.” He couldn’t help the dirty grin he gave the poor man, he really couldn’t. Snape looked appropriately disturbed.

“Why would you...?” For once, the man didn’t seem to be able to find the right words. Harry sighed and dropped the teasing expression in favour of a pensive one.

“It was for mutual benefit, really. Understand, we were never romantically in love or something like that. We liked each other, respected each other... as I said, partners seems the best way I can call it. And we were both lonely. The man I loved was on the other side, and the man you loved was dead.” Snape gave him a sharp look, and Harry nodded. “Yeah, I know about that. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

***

Severus was not sure what he felt about _Harry Potter_ knowing such an intimate, personal detail as his ill-fated love interest about his private life. Then he suppressed an internal wince. From what Potter had said he knew quite a few more _intimate_ details about him. Honestly, under what circumstances would he ever consent to bed a _Potter_? It was utterly beyond him. Of course, the young man curled up comfortably in the chair across from him was very attractive, but he looked far too much like his father for comfort. In addition, he was not only twenty years younger (young enough to be his son― which was disturbingly obvious, given the circumstances) but also his student. Severus knew what people thought, that they expected the worst from him, but he would never forsake his professionalism in such a manner.

Of course, there was also the question what Potter saw in _him_. Severus was painfully aware that, as far as physical charms went, he was utterly devoid. In fact, he even lacked any charms of personality which might compensate. No, he was not an attractive man, not handsome, not beautiful, not by any stretch of the definition. So why would the young man over there, with his clean, even features, young body and big, striking green eyes condescend to share the bed of a miserable, grumpy Death Eater spy the age of his father? Severus was utterly perplexed by the question, but he was certainly not going to embarrass himself and enquire any further into that matter than he already had.

“So when did this change in our... relationship take place? After you ceased to be my student, I hope.” Severus knew he sounded stiff and frosty, but he was everything but comfortable discussing a mutual sex life with a man he didn’t know.

Potter, though, only gave a little laugh, a delighted chuckle.

“Oh, don’t worry, I was of age! Well, mostly because you simply would not budge on that point, and your self-control far exceeded any of the no-doubt rather pitiful seduction scenarios my teenage brain could come up with. As for being your student... well, Hogwarts as a school was not re-opened after my fifth year. The war was in full swing by September, and everyone had more important things to worry about than essay writing and exams. In that sense, I ceased being your student. But you never stopped being my mentor, not till the day you died.” A sudden grin made his teeth flash white in the dim light, quite inappropriate for the current topic, Severus felt, but Potter continued on. “Maybe you didn’t even stop being my mentor then.”

“How do you mean?” He had not ended up a ghost, he hoped. He would rather pay penance in the next world than spend eternity hovering around in this.

“Well, whose voice do you think I hear in the back of my head when I mess up?” Potter answered, the bright grin flashing again. Then his expression grew pensive.  
“I’ve missed talking to you,” he sighed, saluting Severus with his almost-empty glass. “And being here.” He looked around the dimly-lit room. “It feels like coming home.”

Silence settled over them, not exactly uncomfortable, but not quite comfortable, either, while Severus absorbed that and Potter stared pensively into the clear liquid covering the bottom of his glass. Then he drained the glass with a final swig.

“I guess I better get going, then. It’s late. Thanks for the drink.”

Severus rose to accept the empty glass and escort Potter to the door. Once in the hallway, Potter turned around once more.

“Would it be okay if I came by again every now and then? For a talk or so?” he asked, green eyes staring up into Severus’ with a spark of masked hope burning in them.

“Certainly,” Severus found himself agreeing. He found the young man’s company surprisingly pleasant, he realized. Potter gave him a smile that left him blinking, sweet and boyish, disarming in its honesty and almost shy, and then turned around to walk off down the corridor with strides that complete belied the glimpse of... innocence his face had just held.

***

When Draco opened the door between their rooms, he found Harry sprawled out on his belly on the couch, with a book in front of him and a roll of parchment on the coffee table, a section held open with an inkwell. He hadn’t seen Harry at all the day before, so he’d decided to go look for him.

Harry leaned over to scribble something on his parchment as Draco leaned in the doorway, then looked up, his expression slightly puzzled.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

Draco shrugged. “Well, I was bored, so I came to see what you’re doing.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked a couple of times, apparently not having expected that. “Come in, if you want.” He sat up and gestured at the book and parchment. “I’m just trying to get ready for teaching...” The grimace he pulled seemed to indicate that he wasn’t all that successful.

Frankly, Draco found the idea of Harry teaching hard to adjust to. The Harry he had known had been so impulsive, so impatient... hardly the type for a position so responsible and respectable as that of a teacher. Not to mention his general disregard for all forms of authority...

Draco pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room to take a seat next to Harry. “What are you reading?”

Harry held the book up so Draco could read the cover. He felt his eyebrow rise.

“Third-year Defence Against the Dark Arts? Why are you reading _that_? Don’t you already know everything in that book?”

“Well, yes,” Harry agreed, “but I’m trying to find out what the students at the different levels know. I have no idea what’s supposed to be on the DADA curriculum...”

“How so?” Draco asked, curious.

Harry shrugged. “Never had decent, consistent DADA, what with the curse...”

Draco frowned in confusion. “What curse?”

Harry looked up from where he had been looking at the book now resting in his lap, and seeing those green eyes startled Draco anew, even though he knew intellectually to expect them.

“Oh, the curse Voldemort put on the position that prevented anyone from keeping the post of DADA teacher for more than a year.”

Draco’s eyebrow rose again. Why in the world would the Dark Lord bother with cursing a teaching position?

“I guess from the look on your face, the post wasn’t cursed here?” Harry asked, an ironic smile twisting his lips. Draco shook his head.

“No. Why would he curse a teaching post?”

“Well, he applied, and Dumbledore turned him away. So he cursed it so no one else could hold it for a longer period of time.”

“So you’ve never had a teacher for longer than a year?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, and since he cursed it some decades before I started Hogwarts and rumour about a curse had spread, Dumbledore had a really hard time filling the post at all. The quality of the teachers was accordingly...” He grimaced.

“So how did they not keep the post longer than a year? What happened? Did they die?” Draco asked, morbidly curious, but Harry shook his head.

“Not necessarily. Well, my first one did,” he amended. “But he had Voldemort fused to the back of his head, and when he tried to kill me, I sort of burned him with my touch...” Harry made a vague wave with his hand. “I’m not quite sure whether he died from that or from Voldemort leaving his body...”

Draco blinked at Harry’s thoughtful face somewhat incredulously. The Dark Lord fused to... the back of someone’s head? And Harry’s touch burning him? How utterly strange! “And... the others?” He was almost afraid to ask.

“Well, the second was a big fraud and Obliviated himself when Ron’s wand backfired on him. The third was a werewolf, the fourth was a Death Eater Polyjuiced as an ex-Auror, and the fifth...” He scowled darkly. “The fifth was a sadistic paedophile bitch Hermione and I lured into the Forbidden Forest where she had an unfortunate encounter with a herd of centaurs...” The smirk on Harry’s face was the vicious one he wore when he had gotten the best of an enemy. “Out of all of them, the werewolf and the Death Eater were actually the best. At least we learned something in their classes. The rest...” He shook his head in obvious despair.

“And what about NEWT classes?” Harry looked at him, and it took a moment for comprehension to light his features.

“Oh, you mean sixth and seventh year? Never made it that far, I’m afraid.” He grinned. “At least not officially. I mean, I was at Hogwarts, training, sure, but it didn’t reopen as a school after my fifth year, so...”

“You... don’t have any NEWTs?” Draco asked, incredulous. “You never finished school?”

Harry gave him a confused look and shook his head with a shrug.

“Nope. Not as if we had the time for stuff like that. Or as if it would have mattered, since there weren’t any jobs to get anyway. And besides, I thought the me in this world left school even earlier, after fourth year? Though, with him starting a year later, that’d actually work out to the same year. Weird... Maybe I was just never meant to sit NEWTs.” He grinned at Draco.

“Well, yeah, he left school, but my father made sure he had the best tutors, and he took his NEWTs on time at Beauxbatons.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that was possible. Why France, though?” Harry wanted to know. Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Well, with all the vandalism charges- not to mention the suspicions of manslaughter- it's not like he could just stroll up to any British institution, now could he?”

“Oh,” Harry made again. It was still strange, to hear of an alternate version of _him_ , doing things like that... While he wasn’t exactly a model citizen, he’d at least never had criminal charges brought against him. He felt a wry smile twist his lips. He might be a killer, but at least he was a legal killer.

“What?” Draco’s voice interrupted his thoughts, his expression quizzical, so Harry shared his little observation. From the look that garnered him, Draco didn’t really see the humour in it. Therefore, Harry switched the topic back to his syllabus.

“C’mon, help me with this,” he prompted, gesturing to the parchment and waving the book. “What spells do you remember learning in school that came in handy in a tough spot?”

“You’re asking me?” Draco asked, surprised. “A Death Eater?”

“That’s why I asked for spells you learned in school, not Junior Death Eater training camp.” He didn’t add “Duh!”, but it was a bit of a struggle. From the slight glare he received, he could just as well said it out loud, though.

“I wasn’t in that many fights...” Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“You’re a Death Eater! You must have some more experience than the average wizard! What about duels? Hell, what about training? What did you use?” Draco gave him a slightly consternated look.

“Fine, fine! I’m thinking, no need to get so snappy, you know?” Harry blinked, floored.

“Er... sorry?”

Snappy? That hadn’t been snappy... So, well, maybe he hadn’t exactly masked any exasperation or impatience, but that was _nothing_ compared to what he was used to in an exchange with Draco. He realized the problem as soon as that thought made it through his head. What _he_ was used to. Not what this Draco was used to. He sighed, and gave the young man next to him a slight smile.

“Sorry,” he said more sincerely. “Alternate personality difficulty.”

“Huh? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, your alternate version wouldn’t have considered my tone snappy, or he wouldn’t have been insulted by it, compared to how we normally talked to each other.”

“Oh? How _did_ you usually talk to each other?”

“Rarely without shouting, yelling or outright insults, and never for long before the curses started to fly,” Harry replied dryly.

Draco shook his head as if he had trouble believing it. “ _Why_ couldn’t you get along? I mean...” he waved his hands around a bit, “...if you didn’t like each other, why didn’t you just ignore each other? Why go to all the trouble of fighting like that?”

That was a very good question for which Harry sadly didn’t have a good answer.

“You have no idea how many people have asked me that, including myself. The truth is, I have no idea. Possibly because he was an annoying, spoiled little git and a bully, and I was the annoyingly goody-goody Gryffindor golden boy.” Draco started to look vaguely insulted at Harry’s description of his alternate self, but lost the look as Harry delivered his self-description in an equally wry tone.

“We just set each other off,” Harry continued, pensively. “After that second meeting on the train, the sight of his face alone was enough to make me want to punch his lights out, and I’m reasonably certain he itched to hex me six ways to Sunday whenever he laid eyes on me.”

“You have no urges to punch _me_ , do you?” Draco asked, tone only half-joking.

“So far, no,” Harry assured him wryly. “Any urges to hex me?”

“Not yet,” Draco replied, matching his tone. “But then, I wasn’t in the habit of hexing your alternate self.” Harry had to laugh at that.

“Well, I guess that might explain why you can’t think of helpful spells you learned at Hogwarts off the top of your head,” he teased. “Whoever did you fight with, if not me?”

“No one,” Draco answered dryly. “It was my job to keep _you_ out of fights.”

Harry blinked in surprise at that, then filed that titbit of information away to deal with at a later time, possibly when he was not sitting next to a confusing blond and trying to work out a viable syllabus.

“So, no spells then?”

Draco shook his head. “Frankly, no, I don’t think so. Anything I would use in a fight I learned either at home from my father or later in training.”

“But you had seven years of Defence classes! And I’m assuming they were better than mine, not nearly as disjointed. Whatever did you learn there?”

“Well... we learned about Dark creatures, what they looked like and things... and we learned about theory... oh, I guess we did learn a couple of shield charms.”

“So... what were you supposed to do if you got into a fight with a Dark wizard, or met one of those Dark creatures?” Dear God, what Draco described sounded like the Um-bitch all over again... Draco gave him a look.

“If you’re a proper, law-abiding citizen, you’re not supposed to meet a Dark wizard, or that was Professor Prattleworth’s firm opinion. And if you were so unlucky as to meet a Dark creature, you’d recognize it from a long way off and got the hell out of there.”

It did sound like Umbridge, and Harry nearly felt sick with the thought.

“How many years of Hogwarts graduates did that professor teach?” he asked faintly.

Draco shrugged. “Well, I don’t know, but my father had him as well, so at least twenty or so.”

Harry closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the couch.

“So if the average adult wizard with a NEWT in DADA were to meet a Death Eater, who would walk away alive?” Draco was giving him an incredulous frown when he opened his eyes and looked back at him.

“The Death Eater, _of course_. That’s what makes him a Death Eater!”

“Two adult wizards and one Death Eater?” Harry asked, his voice small and hopeful.

“Nope.” Draco shook his head sagely. “Still the Death Eater.”

“Three?” Headshake.

Harry threw up his hands. “Fine, so what would you say, how many average adult wizards would it take to take down one measly little Death Eater?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco said thoughtfully, “maybe ten? If only ’cause someone would get away to call the Aurors...”

Harry moaned. “Crap,” he said emphatically, rubbing the bridge of his nose when a headache threatened to start. “I’ve got my work cut out for me if I want to turn this war around, don’t I?”

“Well, of course you do,” Draco replied. “That was the whole point of bringing you here, right?” Harry grunted.

“S’pose it was... man, what was everyone thinking? Hell, what was Dumbledore thinking, neglecting the most important subject like that with Voldemort out there?”

“The Dark Lord wasn’t officially ‘out there’, as you call it,” Draco pointed out dryly. “And from what my father told me, a lot of those Ministry guidelines on ‘hazardous and potentially perilous spell-casting’ were inspired by him and others before him on the orders of the Dark Lord. Subtly, of course. I think Dumbledore tried to push for a more hands-on approach a couple of times, but as we’re such a ‘civilized country’, the Ministry, and the parents, did not see a need to ‘subject our children to spells that might frighten or potentially inspire violence in them’. I think the argument ran along the lines that if the children weren’t exposed to violence then they were all the more likely to become peaceful and productive members of society.”

“Yeah, like that has _ever_ worked,” Harry grumbled. No wonder Voldemort was marching through Wizarding Britain virtually unopposed in this reality. The bastard really _had_ planned this for a long, long time, and been damn clever about it, too.

“So, basically you’re telling me that I can just forget about this thing...” he waved at the third-year DADA text, “...and just start from scratch?”

“Well, the kids are supposed to know the theory of the spells in there,” Draco answered, “and, honestly, you’re right, you can’t keep the kids away from _everything_. Everyone knows _some_ sort of hex or jinx. But as far as real duelling is concerned, yeah, I think you’ll have to start from the beginning. But then, isn’t that why Dumbledore hired you?”

“I didn’t think things were _that_ bad...” Harry whined. He would have to re-think his entire approach. At least he’d found out before he’d actually gotten very far with his planning, thanks to Draco. He gave up on the syllabus for the time being, and instead spent some time chatting with Draco, trying to find out more about what sort of spells were likely to be widely known among the kids, and, at the same time, get a feeling for what school had been like for Draco here.

***


	14. Chapter 14

The first rays of the sun were just slanting through the cracks in the mountains when the castle wards started blaring. Harry jerked out of a deep sleep, and was half-way done pulling on his boots before his mind consciously registered what was happening, as years of habit flawlessly took over. The door opened while he was slinging his potions belt over his head and Draco stumbled through, blinking sleepily and fumbling his way into a dressing gown.

“Wha’s happening?” he mumbled, then had to repeat himself because Harry hadn’t heard him over the alarm.

“The wards. Someone tripped them,” Harry answered while he threaded his belt through the loops at the end of the potions belt and the top of the gun holster.

“Who... who do you think it is?” Harry looked up at the quaver in Draco’s voice to find the blond leaning against the doorframe, paler than usual and eyes wide, sleepiness replaced by apprehension. In that moment, he looked very, very far indeed from the Draco Malfoy Harry knew.

“Death Eaters, most likely,” he answered, his tone a little softer than he had intended. Oh, well. Who could possibly resist those big, worried grey eyes? “Possibly Voldemort himself, considering how the last time went.”

Draco gulped at the mention of that last time, but Harry really didn’t have time to reassure panicky Slytherins while the wards were still wailing away. After cinching the last buckle on his wrist sheaths, he yanked open the drawers of his nightstand and grabbed a handful of ammunition clips. Boot knives, wrist knives, wand: check, check and check. Gun, potions, spare ammo: check, check and check. Moody had drilled this routine into him so deeply (“Always know where your weapons are, boy, always know where your weapons are!!”), he barely had to think about it. How long had it been since the wards had been triggered? Three minutes, maybe, his mind supplied. Not long enough to make it across the grounds. Yet. Why hadn’t anyone shut the wards off, anyway? Surely everyone in the castle must be awake by now.

He grabbed his sword from its place next to the nightstand and easily slung the harness across his shoulders, making his way to the door. He'd grabbed his cloak and had one hand on the door handle when Draco’s voice stopped him.

“Harry!” He turned his head to look over his shoulder. Draco was still hovering in the open door to his rooms, one hand on the frame, the other sort of half reaching out to him. He gulped when their eyes met, and dropped his hand. “Be careful.”

Harry couldn’t help but give a small smile, and nodded.

“I will,” he promised, then he was out of the door, slinging his cloak over his shoulders and jogging off down the corridor towards the Entrance Hall.

***

The staircases, motionless in their emergency conformation, allowed him to reach his goal in under five minutes. Loping down the last flight of stairs taking the steps two at a time, he surveyed the Hall before him. A handful of people were milling around in a fashion that looked decidedly confused and aimless. Harry could make out Lily and James, dressing gowns obviously hastily donned, hair sleep-ruffled and wands in their hands. McGonagall was there in her unmistakeable tartan dressing gown and hair net, and Professor Sprout came bustling from the direction of the dungeons. Harry took one look at this sorry band of defenders, and took charge.

“Who, how many, and from where?” he demanded as he walked up to the cluster forming around Lily and James. “Does anyone know?”

“Death Eaters, I’d guess, but only Albus is keyed into the wards...” It was James who answered him, eyes showing just a bit too much white but voice steady.

“And where’s Albus? The wards have been ringing for approximately ten minutes already. Why haven’t they been shut off yet? And where is everyone? Don’t you have emergency protocols in place?”

The blank looks everyone gave him answered that question.

“Never mind. The most vulnerable part will be the long eastern flank of the castle. The cliff and the lake make approaching from the west difficult, but we should have someone there in case they do decide to approach by broom. Easy enough to take care of, but we have to see them. The walls and wards are thick at the back where the Forbidden Forest comes down, so that doesn’t need much defending. The main battlefield will be out front on the grounds between the castle and the Forest. It’s south and southeast, so we’ll be facing against the sun, keep that in mind.” Of course, as it was, there wasn’t going to be much defending if the rest of the inhabitants of the castle didn’t show up soon. Thankfully, Dumbledore chose that moment to appear, Hermione at his elbow. With a frown Harry noted that she was fully dressed and her hair neatly tied back in a strict bun. Had she wasted time dressing when she should have been getting to the Entrance Hall as fast as possible? They certainly needed to install those Emergency Protocols, along with regular drills. If they managed to beat back this attack, that was.

Once he arrived, Dumbledore confirmed that the attack was coming from the east, and that it was indeed Death Eaters. He allayed Harry’s worries that Voldemort himself was with the troops, though.

“They seem to be about thirty strong,” Albus told them gravely, and Professor Sprout clapped her hands in front of her mouth in distress, while McGonagall pinched her lips until they were all but invisible.

“That’s all?” slipped out of Harry’s mouth before he could think better of it.

“All?” Hermione snapped, her voice high-pitched. “They outnumber us three to one, Potter!”

He couldn’t help the snort.

“Yeah, and we’re on the defensive. We have this nice, big, solid castle to hide in, wards to warn us, and know the lay of the land. Last time I did this, we were outnumbered _ten_ to one. _That’s_ tough odds! Why didn’t he send more people?”

Albus frowned at him. “Thirty should already be a sizeable part of his troops.”

Harry felt his eyebrows rise. “Maybe things aren’t quite as bad as I feared...” he mumbled. Then before anyone could comment, he continued: “Where’s Snape? Has he been summoned?”

Albus nodded, and Harry had to suppress the old, old worry that rose again at that.

There were some things he hadn’t missed these past couple of years. Having people he cared about walk into the serpent’s den was one of them. Then he turned his mind to the defence of the castle. Dumbledore informed him that Order members should start Flooing in presently, and the rest of the teachers joined them while Harry was assigning positions. He was uncomfortably aware of what Draco had revealed to him a couple of days before: That, when he asked for the best duellers, they were unlikely to be up to the standard he was used to. Still, he could only work with what he had. He kept the majority of the teachers indoors – they tended to be older, their reflexes slower, but their accuracy and experience made them more valuable in the end. It was times like these that he was grateful to be living in a castle. The building was _meant_ to be besieged, so highly defensible positions were part of the design.

He sent Sprout and Flitwick off to the western part of the third floor, where several turrets provided an excellent view and free spell-casting over the lake and the cliff. Sinistra, Meddleworth, the Muggle Studies Professor – whom he hadn't yet been introduced to – and Hermione were assigned to keep an eye on their back, the northern wall, where the Forest closed uncomfortably close. He didn’t really anticipate an attack, though. Voldemort wouldn’t have had time to haggle out an agreement with all the highly unsociable creatures in the Forbidden Forest, and his Death Eaters would be in as much danger as any wizard in there. Also, the thick undergrowth made it as impossible to aim and cast for the attackers as for the defenders, and the castle was the most massive there, the windows narrow slits in three feet thick walls layered heavily with wards.

He asked Albus to position himself at the window above the great castle doors on the fourth floor, where he would be able to see and defend, the approach to the castle, with McGonagall as back-up. The rest, including James and Lily, he split into two groups: one would be stationed inside, the other he would take out with him to take down the Death Eaters once they had figured out how to throw up shields in time to stop the spells coming at them from the castle walls.

“Okay, remember: First order of business: throw up trenches so you have some cover. The approach to the castle is flat and featureless for a reason, and it’s not ‘cause it looks pretty. That’s a good old-fashioned killing ground out there and if you don’t dig yourselves in you’ll be sitting ducks. Second: don’t take risks. When in doubt, let the castle take a hit. She can take it, you probably can’t, and human lives are more valuable than chipped stones. No foolish heroics. Which brings us to thirdly: no mercy. If you can’t kill, fine. Stun and bind, but don’t hesitate. You see a Death Eater, you curse first, ask questions later. Anything else? No? Good, let’s get out there before they knock on our front door.”

***

The morning air was chilly and the grass crunched with frost under his boots as Harry made his way along the castle wall. He felt himself coming awake, all his senses on high alert from a combination of the freshness and adrenalin from the anticipation of the attack. Every sound, every scent seemed to be carried with almost unreal clarity, and he was aware of his body, the way his muscles worked together, how the air rushed in and out of his lungs, the beat of his heart and the flow of his blood in his veins in a way he only ever was in battle. There was no doubt, no hesitation in him at these times. There was only him, his body, his abilities, his power, and what he needed to do.

He stopped and surveyed his position, nodding in satisfaction. It would do. The grounds were a gentle, empty slope down towards the last tendrils of the Forbidden Forest and the gates, the road to Hogsmeade a white band in the glittering green grass.

For a moment, he wondered how safe the inhabitants of the village were, then he dismissed the thought again. He had no time for that now. Satisfied that the enemy had not yet reached them, he turned and started throwing up large slabs of earth as cover. He grimaced. At home, these trenches around the castle had basically been permanent for the last couple of years, at least until the besieging lines of Death Eaters advanced enough that they were forced to retreat behind the castle walls for good, but here his spell was ripping jagged lines into the grass cover, and he was sort of sorry to disturb the pristine grounds like this. The exposed earth steamed softly in the cool morning air. Satisfied for the time being with the result of his spell, he moved on down the castle wall to secure a second position. Before he could leave however, a light touch on his arm made him look up into Lily’s face.

“What is the spell you are using?” she asked him quietly, while he needed a blink to dispel his renewed surprise at looking into eyes so similar to his own.

“Oh. Right. _Vomer major_. Here, you move your wand like this...” He demonstrated the twist and swish for the medieval ploughing charm Hermione had adapted for their needs so long ago that he had completely forgotten that it hadn’t been common knowledge at some point. Once he was reasonably certain that she had it right, he left her to teach it to the rest of his small troop and moved on.

He had just finished a third earth bulwark when he saw the first dark shapes appearing at the bottom of the grounds. Well, it had taken them long enough. They seemed to have divided themselves into three groups, one approaching slightly ahead, the others flanking them. Harry jogged back to his people.

“I’ll take the middle,” he announced. “Two of you to each side, so someone stays with me. I’ll probably move out of cover at some point, though, so whoever stays with me will have to hold the position alone.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Lily replied, and one look at her set face told him there’d be a fight they didn’t have time for if he argued.

“Fine,” he agreed with a short nod. “Everyone get down, then,” he continued with a glance over his shoulder at the approaching Death Eaters. “Put up a couple of shields for the initial assault.”

James gave Lily one last look, then grabbed one of the other teachers and jogged over to the right. Harry made sure everyone reached their positions easily, then squatted down in the trough left behind the mound of earth, squinting over the top at the enemy lines. The sun was still low enough that it hadn’t reached their position, though it might give those on the castle’s higher floors trouble. Wanting to have a better look at what was in store for them he habitually turned to his right... and cursed.

“What?” Lily asked, puzzled and worried.

“Nothing,” Harry grumbled. “I’ve just proven Hermione right again, is all.

“Omnioculars,” he explained at her questioning look. “I never carry my own, and she’s told me time and again when I borrowed hers that one day I’d find myself in a situation where I’d want a pair and there’d be no one to borrow them from around. Well, that would be today.”

Shifting so he could lay down on his stomach to peek over the mound and keep his legs from cramping, he tried to count the Death Eaters as best as he could without the help of the omnioculars. They certainly didn’t seem to be in any hurry, approaching at a sedate pace. Apparently, they were very confident in their strength in numbers.

Albus’ estimate of thirty seemed pretty accurate. About half made up the middle group, leaving the rest split up at the sides. Harry could’ve just about made out the face of the closest Death Eater if it hadn’t been for the masks when the first spell came whizzing overhead from the castle walls. He winced internally. It hit and the Death Eater crumbled to the ground, but it was too early, most of them were still out of range. The most effective way was to let them come as close as possible, trusting the defences in place and then take out as many Death Eaters at once as possible. But, well, coordination like that needed practise and experience, both of which everyone around Harry was sorely lacking.

The fallen Death Eater climbed back to his feet and Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. That was why he generally didn’t bother with stunners in battle. There was a bit of hesitation and shifting among the Death Eaters, and Harry felt himself perk up. It looked like they weren’t any more experienced than Hogwarts’ defenders. Well, that was something at least.

When the approach continued, it wasn’t quite as confident as before anymore, and more spells started to fly, pale in the bright beams from the rising sun. The Death Eaters reciprocated, and Harry ducked his head as stone chips rained down on them from where several telling green beams had impacted high on the castle wall. Lily was shooting nervous looks between him and the dark, towering figures steadily closing in on them, her hand white-knuckled where it gripped her wand, but Harry still made no move to attack, instead watching as the close-knit group approaching them broke up somewhat as some stayed behind to revive those Stunned from the walls. When he saw the first Stunner glance harmlessly off a shield charm in front of a Death Eater to the left of the group he judged the disorganisation maximal, gave Lily a short nod, and shot a quick succession of curses into the centre of the group. Two harmlessly bounced off of shields, one glanced off and felled a nearby Death Eater, and one got through, producing a satisfying scream of pain. That would have been the bone-breaking curse.  
Harry ducked down, green and red flashing over his head, then retaliated, and the battle was on. He had time to shoot one quick look at Lily to make sure she was fighting and not panicking, then his attention was occupied with taking out as many Death Eaters as he could before they were overrun.

A commotion to the right drew his attention, and he dared take his eyes off the Death Eaters before him as they similarly shifted their focus, hooded heads turning, the furious spell-fire ceasing for a moment. A group of wizards, robes flapping in the morning wind, came running from the front of the castle. They were unmasked, wands out and ready. The Order had arrived. They were also running up, no cover, no shield charms, no organization that Harry could see. The Death Eaters beleaguering the first trench turned to face the new enemy, and their first salvo of spells took down two Order members, while the rest of the group was thrown into a confusion of stumbling and colliding figures. One of those spells had been green, and Harry was sure that man would not be getting up again. He winced internally at the time it took the Order group to righten themselves and return fire. A section of the Death Eaters covering his position peeled off to reinforce their comrades, and Harry knew he was not going to get better odds. One deep breath to centre himself, fixing his attention on the closest Death Eater, and Harry vaulted over the earthen mound, the first curses leaving his wand before his boots touched the grass on the other side.

***

The wand handle in Lily’s hand felt slippery with cold sweat while she tried to stun and bind Death Eaters without accidentally hitting one of their own people. The smell of the upturned earth she was hiding behind was pungent in her nostrils and moisture was seeping through her night clothes and dressing gown which was all she was wearing. The last battle had been bad, but this time it was much worse. There were a lot more Death Eaters, for one, and they also seemed more ruthless than during the attack last week. Dark curses had been flying in frightening frequency then too, but the sheer amount of Killing Curses cast this time made her sick to her stomach. If only one of these hit James… or Sirius, Remus, Peter… any of her friends… Harry. He wasn’t her son, certainly. In fact, it was disturbing how different he was from her son in behaviour and character when they looked so very much alike. Still, she didn’t want to lose him. So she cast as fast as she could, even though it felt no where near enough to make a difference in the numbers against them, and she didn’t know how long she would be able to keep this up. Already she felt a bit tired despite the adrenalin pumping through her system. But she had a position to hold, and the trenches were admittedly an ingenious idea. They would never have been able to hold out against the Death Eaters otherwise.

In front of her, the battle turned into a chaotic free-for-all as the formerly ordered Death Eater groups dissolved with the arrival of the Order. She didn’t know what had happened to the other two trenches, but she could only hope her fellow teachers were all right ― and James…

***

Harry fought, lost in the rhythm of battle. There was only step, duck, roll, his hand moving his wand through the patterns ceaselessly, without hesitation, the spells so familiar, so deeply ingrained they required no thought. He was in that strange state he dropped into in battle, hyperaware of everything around him, yet without conscious thought. The knowledge that any moment a stray spell could end his existence was remote, detached. There was no need to worry about something he had no control over.

In that remote, strategizing part of his mind where he noticed such things during battle, he noted that the Death Eaters he was facing weren’t what he was used to. Their curses showed little variety, their movements were slow and sloppy, spells frequently missing their targets. They showed no organisation now that the battle was truly engaged, and they seemed about as confused as the Order members they were facing.

 _Luckily_ , his mind supplied. If these had been the Death Eaters from back home, they would all be dead within half an hour.

He caught a glint of green out of the corner of his eye and grabbed the next black robe, hauling the Death Eater into the path of the incoming Killing Curse, then dropping the body and, with a smooth flick and twist, sending a bolt of painfully blue lightning back at the caster. The curse impacted without encountering any resistance whatsoever, and Harry turned his attention away as soon as the man fell with a scream, limbs twitching.  
Familiar laughter pierced the cacophony of screams and shouts and spells, and Harry swivelled his head to fix his gaze on the black-haired man, red robes streaming in the chilly morning wind, who was bouncing around, laughingly, while driving back a Death Eater with quick slashes of his wand.

A sudden, horrible sense of deja-vu settled over his mind, jolting him out of his battle trance, as he watched two more Death Eaters converge on the scene, closing in on the oblivious Sirius. _No! Oh, no! Not again!_ And Harry ripped his feet out of the clinging mud, forced himself into motion, heart in his mouth, desperation clawing at him. Not this time! He couldn’t be too slow, too late this time!

He didn’t know how he covered the distance between them without being hit. He didn’t even know whether he _was_ hit. Every moment stretched like syrup. Until the very end he didn’t know whether he could make it. And then he barrelled into a hard body, heard a hoarse bellow of protest, and saw the curses illuminate the mud in front of his face. The shadows flickered out, and he was still alive. He turned, still crouching, plucked a vial out of his belt with his left hand. His right was still entangled with Sirius’ robes, his weight on it, and he didn’t have the time to free it.  
A turn of his wrist and the innocuous little vial tumbled through the air, end over end, glittering in the morning sun. Harry threw himself back down, covered Sirius heaving and flailing body with his own as well as he could, just in time.

A deafening roar, followed by a wave of scalding heat washed over them as the better parts of the open vial spilled on the ground when it landed, mixing with the dew and mud and blood, and reacted spectacularly to the presence of water.

Harry shoved up from the ground, his ears ringing, the noise of the battle momentarily dimmed. His cloak had shielded him from the worst of the heat, though he could feel a couple of blisters forming above his wrists. Nothing he couldn’t ignore, though. He bent and hauled Sirius to his feet as well, already aware of the attention the Death Eaters were turning on them and the smoking crater, fringed with three crippled, burnt bodies.

“Fucking pay attention!” he yelled at Sirius, furious with him for almost making the same mistake _again_ , no matter how irrational that was. He wasn’t sure the man could hear him yet, but he turned to throw himself back into the battle.

***

Lily was tired. Her wand felt like it was made of lead, and her hand had started shaking ever so slightly some time ago. Exhaustion breathed through her body, and all she really wanted to do was crawl into a bed and sleep. For a week.

That was impossible, of course, since the battle was still raging all around her. She never wanted to be part of another battle again. The things she had seen… they would be haunting her dreams, joining those scenes from the last battle, she knew. All the blood, the gruesome injuries caused by malevolent magic, destroying once healthy bodies, bringing to light things that were never meant to be seen… It made her sick, made her want to Obliviate herself.

The most disturbing thing, though, was possibly Harry. That nice, well-mannered, compassionate young man she’d have been proud to call her true son. That smallish boy with her unfamiliar, bright green eyes and James’ tousled black mop of hair, with his Muggle clothes and strange friendship with Severus. That young man was carving a path through the Death Eaters with frightening efficiency, moving with a graceful assurance that looked like a dance between the sizzling spells and flailing bodies. His face was calm, expressionless, even as his spells felled Death Eaters, maiming them, _hurting_ them, making them scream in a way only their victims normally did… killing them. There was not the slightest hint of hesitation, of qualms or disgust, of _mercy_ in his movements. She had never seen anyone kill with such cold, unflinching brutality. He didn’t seem like a boy out there on the battlefield. He seemed like a killing machine. She had not seen a single spell miss its target, nor had he cast anything verbally; nor did he appear tired at all, even though he hadn’t had a moment’s rest for what had to be at least half an hour. The power behind that feat was mind-boggling. And something else became obvious to her, something she should have expected, but hadn’t really taken in: Experience. This Harry walked the battlefield as if he did it every day.

The ritual had been supposed to bring them a weapon. When it had brought them a person instead, Lily had not been the only one consternated. Now, seeing this alternate Harry Potter in action, she realized that he _was_ a weapon. The horrors he described to them had never seemed quite real. Not until now, when she saw what his life had turned him into.

The Death Eaters had long since realized that he was the biggest threat on the battlefield, and were concentrating their efforts on bringing him down. Despite their advantage in numbers, however, they didn’t have much success. Harry just never stayed in one spot long enough. He didn’t fight the way the Death Eaters expected him to, he didn’t fight the way Lily had learned to fight. He didn’t duel, didn’t pick an opponent and then move on to the next once he’d brought his enemy down. No, he cast all over the place, wherever there was an opening, and Lily saw him duck away from a Death Eater who’d singled him out more than once, losing them in the crowd in favour of an easier kill.

Wasn’t it going to be over soon? The Death Eaters were taking heavy loses, and the ranks of fighters were diminishing. There were so many bodies on the ground, and a lot of them were wearing black robes. Of course, the Order was also losing people, but not at the rate the Death Eaters were. Which was probably mostly, if not all, Harry’s doing, she thought. Yes, the numbers seemed to be shifting in their favour. Surely the Death Eaters would retreat soon?

And then a spell finally struck Harry. Lily felt her heart skip a beat as the twisting purple line of light impacted with his right shoulder, breaking his smooth stride into a stumble, sparks and smoke rising from Harry’s black cloak. His arm spasmed and his fingers opened, the dark wand slipping out between them.

Harry didn’t even pause.

While his boots were still sliding through the mud to regain his balance, his left hand smoothly reached over his shoulder to draw the sword from his back. A glittering arc of steel, a long step forward, and the tip of the blade licked up under the white mask of the surprised Death Eater. Blood sprayed, soaking the white cloth in moments, and hit Harry’s face in a wide swath. Before the body hit the ground, Harry was whirling around. His eyes met Lily’s for a moment, and the flat, cold stare froze her in place.

He whipped the blade down, slamming the tip into the ground and in the same movement, drew the gun from his side. She didn’t have time to react as she stared at the blocky metallic muzzle pointing at her. She thought she felt the bullet whip past her head as the crack of the shot echoed over the din of the dying battle. A dull thud behind her, and when she turned her head, she saw the perfect circle in the white mask of the Death Eater who’d been sneaking up behind her, along the castle walls. When she had made sure he was alone, and turned her attention back to the battle in front, Harry had already moved on, sword back in his hand, the blade much bloodier than seconds before.

***

Hermione Granger narrowed her eyes at the shadowy darkness of the trees. There it was again! A glimpse of something pale, some movement… there were Death Eaters there, she was sure of it. It seemed Potter had been on to something when he sent them here, though it pained her to admit it.

She didn’t really like this alternate version better than the boy she’d been in a house with. He was just as arrogant as the little boy she remembered prancing around with Malfoy, acting as if he owned the school and could do whatever he wanted. Malfoy was an unpleasant snob, but at least he didn’t lose his house points by the dozens.

She saw just the same arrogance in the way the new Potter acted, ordering them about and looking down his nose at them because they didn’t support his barbaric ways without question. Hermione had taken Defence Against the Dark Arts at NEWT level, and she had excelled at it, of course. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how to take care of herself.

What she disliked possibly more than Potter’s take-charge attitude, however, was the familiarity he’d assumed with her when they first met. It made her uncomfortable, and she didn’t like being uncomfortable (and what sort of nickname was “Herm”, anyway?). She didn’t even want to think about the implications that she could possibly be friends with someone as brash and disrespectful as _Potter_. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen much of him after that first meeting. The news that Dumbledore wanted to make him a _teacher_ had her seething, though. She had been Professor McGonagall’s apprentice for a mastery in Transfiguration since she’d left school and _she_ hadn’t been offered one of the coveted teaching positions at the most prodigious magical school in Europe. But Potter had to do nothing more than show up.

Well, he only had the position of Duelling Instructor, which was only a club, a voluntary one at that, but it still chafed at her to be overlooked in favour of an underclassman who hadn’t finished his schooling any more than the original Potter had.

Her musings were interrupted by a barrage of spells that suddenly shot out of the underbrush and impacted with the castle wall below with hisses and crackles. Hermione thought she felt the stone shiver under her hands. There was a brief pause, enough to draw a breath, and then the next volley swept against the wards.

They drew their wands and returned fire. Standing next to the narrow arrow slit, Hermione tried to see well enough past her own arm to aim for the spot where the Death Eater’s spells were coming from. She gritted her teeth and wished she knew some swear words to express her frustration when her spells vanished harmlessly into the thick underbrush and the barrage against the walls continued unabated.

They spent long minutes trying to land a hit, but with no success. The walls shivered and groaned with the impact of the Death Eater’s spells, dust starting to swirl from the stones.

Finally losing her patience, Hermione withdrew her arm and shook it out. Her muscles were starting to cramp from casting so much in such an awkward position. Who would have thought that working spells could be physically exhausting? She had never cast so many spells in such a short time, with only enough time in between to think of which spell to use next.

The two professors looked at her, and she drew herself up to her full height.

“This is useless,” she announced. “At this rate, they will overwhelm the wards and once those are gone, it will be easy to break through the castle walls. There is a small side door not too far from here. I’ll exit from there.”

“But… Potter said…” Meddleworth, the Muggle Studies professor, protested.

“I know what he said!” Hermione replied, somewhat testily. “But are you willing to risk the castle’s safety on _his_ word?”

“Well…”

In the end, the teachers followed her down to the ground floor and the door.

***

Cautiously, she opened the door and stuck her head out. All was quiet. Well, no, she could hear the sounds of battle from around the corner of the castle, and the continuous impact of spells on the walls farther along to her right. But here, around the door, everything was quiet. She stepped out.

The world exploded into agony.

A screaming, searing, red eternity later, it stopped.

She didn’t know how much time had passed. She was lying on the cold, damp ground, limbs jerking with involuntary movement as muscle spasms sent painful twinges through her body. Not as painful as before, though. Her throat hurt. No one had ever told her that there was pain like this in the world.

A woman stood by the edge of the trees. Hermione didn’t know when she had gotten there. Her hood was back, black tendrils of hair drifting in the morning breeze. She reached one gloved hand up and pulled the white cloth-mask down to curl around her neck. Her face was pale, full, red lips curled into a pleased smile. Hermione looked into sleepy, dark eyes full of satisfaction.

The woman raised a hand. A hand holding a wand. Distantly, she realized that that was bad. She should do something about that. Raise her own wand. Where was her wand, anyway? Her shuddering body seemed to weight tons. The grass smelled nice. And it was cool against her burning skin.

The world turned green.


	15. Chapter 15

“Enter.”

Severus stepped into the hall and dropped to one knee on the flagstones, careful to keep his posture respectful yet confident.

“You wished to speak to me, my Lord?”

“Indeed I did. Rise, Severus.”

Severus straightened, and looked into the red eyes of the Dark Lord, Occlumency shields firmly in place.

“Tell me what you know about this young man who, I understand, arrived at Hogwarts recently.” The cool, smooth tones were as even as always. Severus suppressed an urge to ask the Dark Lord how he knew about the boy’s location.

“His name is Harold Evans, and he is a relative of Lily Potter’s,” he reported dutifully. He relayed the official story as Albus had instructed him to. Only those present at the ritual, Draco, and he knew the full truth. The Dark Lord, of course, looked far from convinced by the convenient appearance of a long-lost relative.

“Are you aware, Severus, that this _boy_ apparently entered one of our training facilities virtually unopposed, kidnapped one of ours, and left just as unopposed?” This time, anger hid under the smooth tones like a dark, cold river under a sheet of ice. Severus widened his eyes in astonishment, but kept the rest of his face impassive. Exaggeration would not convince the Dark Lord.

“I was aware that he left the castle for some unspecified reason several days ago, my Lord,” he answered carefully. “I did not think it of any importance, however, since he had done so before.”

“Oh? And to what purpose has he left the castle before?”

“If the gossip in the Great Hall is to be believed, my Lord--” Insert faint disparaging sneer here, “--he went shopping, as he arrived with very little luggage.”

“Where did he arrive from, Severus?”

Severus sketched a small bow. “I am afraid I don’t know, my Lord. There were mentions of America, but judging by his accent, that cannot have been recently.”

“Find out as much as you can about the boy, Severus. His appearance at Hogwarts, now, when my victory is so close at hand… I do not like it.”

“Yes, my Lord. I do believe that Dumbledore has a hand in it. He did seem even more secretive than usual for the past weeks-- and unduly happy, given his situation.”

“Did he now? Do what you can to obtain the information, Severus, but do not jeopardize your cover. I do not believe the boy is of that much importance.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Truthfully, Severus disagreed. Considering the way the boy had entered their world, he had a suspicion that he would be of _utmost_ importance. But the less attention the Dark Lord paid him, the better. It was bad enough that he had made as much of an impression as he had already. Severus should have given that more thought when he had informed Po… Evans of Draco’s location. However, a chance to help his godson had been hard to resist.

“You disagree, Severus?” Severus fiercely clamped down on the jolt of fear that shot through his mind. He should not be thinking thoughts like these in front of the Dark Lord. Sloppy.

“I am… uncertain, my Lord. The boy is… unusual. He challenged me to a sword-fight several days ago, and he proved himself extremely competent.”

“Many of our followers are excellent swordsmen, Severus.” The Dark Lord sounded almost… amused.

“He won the duel, my Lord,” Severus admitted. There was no reason to hide these events, as they had been far too public. There almost certainly was a spy amongst the Order of the Phoenix, and if the Dark Lord heard of these events from anyone other than Severus, it would severely damage his position.

“Did he now? What made him challenge you in the first place? Have you already made an enemy of him with your usual charm?” The mockery did sting, but no one could accuse the Dark Lord of being unaware of the particularities of his followers.

“Truthfully, my Lord, the boy seems to… appreciate my company.” Severus did not have to fake how disturbed he was by this.

“Does he? In that case, Severus, I wish you to encourage him. Who knows, he might even make a good addition to our ranks.”

Severus bowed. “As you command, my Lord.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Listening to the cadences, Severus thought it sounded slightly frantic. The Dark Lord tilted his head, and Severus retreated into the shadows lurking around the unlit corners of the hall; shadows that were kept there quite intentionally. You never knew who watched and listened from amongst them when you had an audience with the Dark Lord. And you did well not to forget that. The Dark Lord approved of his followers policing each other’s actions.

It was Rabastan Lestrange who stumbled into the hall and up to the throne as the Dark Lord swung open the doors with a quick flick of his wand. The man was in a frightful state. His robes were torn and stained, he was limping and clutched his right arm tightly to his body with his left, the fingers dangling uselessly. The remnants of his mask were hanging around his neck, stained red and brown with drying blood, no doubt from the nasty gash that ran diagonally across his face. Starting just above the left corner of his lips, it ran over the bridge of his nose, through his right eyebrow, to vanish in the hair above his left temple. It looked like the work of a Dark Cutting Curse. Or a sword.

He came to a swaying stop in front of the throne, gave an unsteady bow.

“My Lord.”

The Dark Lord’s red eyes flicked over the form of his bedraggled follower, then narrowed. Severus could see Lestrange’s jaw working as he swallowed.

“The attack failed, my Lord.” His voice wavered and croaked, and whether it was from pain or fear was impossible to tell.

“Considering your state, I had assumed as much.” The Dark Lord’s tone could almost be called mild, which made the scorn in it all the more cutting. “Did you at least manage to hurt the old man and his little Order?”

“At… at least three members of the Order are dead, my Lord. Possibly more.”

“And how did your men fare?”

Lestrange licked his lips, and Severus could see the white in his eyes from where he was standing. Obviously, Lestrange wasn’t looking forward to answering their Lord’s question.

“Sixteen dead, my Lord. Seven more severely injured.”

Severus felt himself freeze up, his eyes widen against his will. The room was silent apart from Lestrange’s heavy breathing. The Dark Lord’s fingers tightened around the arms of his throne.

“How many dead, did you say?” he finally asked, voice soft and ominous.

“S-s-sixteen, my Lord.” The Dark Lord shifted his weight slightly, leaned forward, and Lestrange broke, stumbling back.

“Please, my lord, please…! It was that boy! Please, he… it was _him_!”

Boy? It couldn’t be… Severus hardly dared believe it, yet, who else could it be? But… _sixteen_ dead? They had never taken losses like that! P… Evans couldn’t be that good. It was just inconceivable.

“Are you telling me that _one boy_ killed a good part of my Marked followers in the course of one morning? In a _single battle_?” Evidently, the Dark Lord thought so, too.

“Y-yes, my Lord! He killed twelve in the battle, and Rowle and Gibbon died of their injuries before we could return here. The other two fell to friendly fire.”

“Who was this boy?” Severus could see the fury burn in the red eyes, fury like he had rarely seen. Lestrange was visibly shaking.

“I don’t know, my Lord! He… he had dark hair, and light eyes, green I think. Maybe twenty years old. He wore strange clothes, no robes, only a cloak, and he fought with a sword as well as his wand. He looked a bit familiar, but I’m sure I have never seen him before.”

Yes, that would be P… Evans. Unbelievable. Bringing down twelve Death Eaters single-handedly…!

The Dark Lord was silent for several moments, his narrowed gaze resting on his shaking follower.

“Leave me,” he commanded then. “See to the wounded. I do not want to lose more men. Make sure of it.”

“Yes, my Lord! At once, my Lord!” Bowing and wincing, Lestrange made his way out of the hall.

“Severus.”

He stepped out of the shadows.

“Does that description fit our new arrival?”

“Yes, my Lord. Evans is indeed in the habit of wearing some strange combination of Muggle and Wizarding attire.”

The Dark Lord’s sneer expressed his opinion on that matter.

“Very well. Follow my previous orders. However, be extremely careful about recruiting him. If at all possible, I want him; however, he seems none too fond of us. Proceed with due caution.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

***

Draco gripped the window sill until his knuckles turned white and his nails hurt from digging into the unforgiving stone. The glass pressed cool against his forehead, and he closed his eyes for a moment. It had been quiet now for a while.

Was it over? Was Harry... still alive?

He had stayed here, in Harry's living room where he would know immediately when Harry returned.

_If_ Harry returned. He hadn't been able to see the battle itself, it was too close to the castle walls and obviously, he could hardly stick his head out the window. Apart from being seen, it would be an invitation for someone to curse him. But he _had_ been able to hear some of what happened, and to watch the spells flicker from down below. And there had been a lot of green. So much green...

Had one of those Killing Curses hit Harry? No matter how good he was, there was no blocking a Killing Curse, no shielding or warding against it...

_Please be all right, please be all right..._ he found himself chanting in his head. He couldn't bear to lose Harry again, not so soon after he had found him again... It would hurt just too damn much. In this moment, it didn't matter that this Harry wasn't _his_ Harry, wasn't the boy he had grown up with, the boy all but adopted into the family, the boy he had spent endless hours next to in classrooms and Death Eater training, the boy he'd roamed the halls of the Manor with. Some fundamental part of him was still _Harry_ , however hard to see at first glance. There was still the challenging spark in his eyes, the fierceness in his grin, the stubbornness and the belief in his own righteousness... He _knew_ all of these, and they were still there. Maybe this Harry's priorities were different, more mature, maybe he wasn't as outright vindictive and petty (traits that had always amused Draco a great deal), but their foundation was still there, whether you called it a strong will (if you asked his father's sycophants) or sheer bloody-mindedness (if you asked Snape).

And he was out there, where the Killing Curses were flashing so thickly, facing adult Death Eaters. Even some inner-circle members would be there, and the only back-up Harry would have were Order members– who hadn't fared too well in the last battle, even against trainees like Harry and Draco. Sure, they had held the castle, but the command for retreat had mainly been given because their commanders didn't like the losses they were taking and were planning to come back with a stronger, more organised force– the force Harry was facing outside.

Draco paced, stopped at the window to look out, listening to the shouts and the murmuring of voices– definitely not a battle anymore. But who had won? Were there Death Eaters marching through the corridors, searching the castle, about to burst into the room? What was he supposed to do if there were? Hide? But for how long? If Hogwarts fell, the war was all but over. Dumbledore was the only notable opposition the Dark Lord had. Sure, the Ministry was still up and running, but considering how many spies had been placed there over the years, no Death Eater considered them a threat. And Draco didn't consider himself the rebel-type. If Death Eaters came bursting in in a few minutes, he would just do as Harry had suggested in the dungeon: claim, quite truthfully, that he had been kidnapped against his will.

He didn't know whether he could make a convincing Death Eater, not now that he'd experienced what battle and killing and losing someone close to him was really like, but maybe he could get by in the background, keep his head down and survive. It might not be what Malfoys did, but it certainly was what Slytherins did.

Steps outside in the corridor jerked him out of his thoughts and he turned away from the window, squaring his shoulders. It was a single pair of boots, however, and when the door opened without a knock, it was Harry who stepped through.

Draco felt such a wave of profound relief that he completely ignored the look of surprise on Harry's face and grabbed him in a hug. He was alive. He was _alive_! He was fine, whole, unharmed... he was real and solid and warm and _not dead_.

***

Harry blinked. Draco Malfoy was hugging him. _Draco. Malfoy._ Was _hugging_ him. And rather fiercely, too.

He was aware he was standing there like an idiot but he was a bit too surprised by this turn of events to react. He hadn't expected to find Draco waiting in his living room, and he sure as hell hadn't expected to be _hugged_ on entrance.

_His_ Draco certainly had never hugged him. Hexed, cursed, tried his best to kill, punched, and fucked, yes, but _hugging_...? That was new. Also, very nice and warm. This Draco really, really cared. This Draco really wasn't the Draco he was used to. At all. He wondered if Draco found him as disconcerting sometimes. Probably.

Then his body decided to remember that he hadn't had any regular sex for years, and that he had had the longest crush on the man currently pressing them together chest to knees. This brought one broad shoulder into just the right position to tempt him to bury his face there, and sinfully silky blond hair brushed his ear. He could smell Draco, clean soap and freshly laundered robes and male... Harry decided it was time to end this little encounter.

He gently drew back, and Draco loosened his grip, his fingers hesitating at Harry's waist, unwilling to let go completely. Earnest grey eyes were searching Harry's face.

"You're all right," he breathed, sounding almost disbelieving.

"Yes, I am," Harry reassured him, looking up into that face that was so much the same and yet so different. He certainly had never before seen what it looked like wearing a mix of fading worry and growing relief.

"Filthy, though," he added with a soft chuckle as he stepped back, spreading his hands apologetically. Draco's eyes gave a quick flick up and down his body and seemed to notice his state for the first time. "I really need a shower. And then I promised Poppy to let her check me over, and after that I've heard that some Aurors want to talk to me." He couldn't help the grimace. Seriously. This whole legality thing was rather inconvenient. It seemed he had grown far too accustomed to the lack of a formal government.

"Poppy?" Draco's brows furrowed in confusion for a moment. "Oh, Pomfrey! Why? Are you hurt?" He sounded rather alarmed and looked Harry up and down a second time.

"Naw." Harry waved him off. "Just some scrapes and bruises, the usual. She's just being her normal fussy self." He started unbuckling his arsenal and set it on the coffee table for a thorough cleaning later. Draco leaned back against the window sill.

"So... how did it go? I couldn't really see–" he gestured at the window behind him, "–but there seemed to be an awful lot of Killing Curses flying around..."

Harry shrugged as he draped his cloak over the back of the couch. How strange, to feel safe enough in Draco Malfoy's presence to take off his weapons and defences.

"Well, it wasn't so bad. Not for our side, at least. I'm afraid I rather decimated the Death Eaters." He gave Draco a quick look to see how he was taking that. He seemed to be trying to keep a neutral expression on his face, but underneath he looked unsure. "They weren't very competent," Harry couldn't help observing.

Draco's eyebrows rose. "They weren't?"

"No," Harry confirmed dryly. "About half of them must have been our generation. Hardly any Inner circle members." He shrugged. "A bunch of people I don't know. Didn't act like First War veterans, though..." He trailed off. Draco gave him a puzzled look, and Harry closed his eyes for a moment. "Right," he said then. "No First War. Never going to get used to this," he grumbled, mostly to himself. "Oh, how well did you know Blaise Zabini?" he thought to ask when his shoulder gave a protesting twinge as he straightened. It had been Zabini who had landed the spell that relieved him of his wand.

Draco shrugged. "We were both in the same House and year. Didn't really like him, though. Why?"

Harry admitted to himself that that relieved him somewhat.

"'Cause I'm afraid I killed him, and, well, if he were a friend of yours I'd rather you hear it from me."

Draco was silent for a moment, gave him a long, uncertain look. "He wasn't a friend," he said then with a small shrug, but he looked slightly disturbed.

Harry nodded and decided to leave it at that, heading for his shower instead. Aurors (and Poppy) weren't particularly known for their patience.

***

The hot water was heavenly on his skin. It took about fifteen minutes and two scrubs of hair and body until it didn't run brown and pink anymore, and he smelled nothing on himself but soap, instead of piss and shit and blood. Battling, he had very soon found out, was always dirtier business than stories of heroes and dragons and villains made you believe. _Death_ was far messier than most people liked to acknowledge, especially in battle. Bowels and bladders emptied, guts were spilled, blood and brains sprayed. Human beings were reduced to so much butchered meat. And all those fluids (of which humans had a lot) soaked into the ground, turning it into a stinking, clinging mud that had a tendency to get simply _everywhere_. There had been times when he had gone for days with dried blood under his fingernails because the battles and fights came in too close succession for it to ever wash out completely. He didn't know whether it was a good thing that the stench, and his knowledge just what it was comprised of, had stopped to turn his stomach after his first year in the thick of the fighting.

He stepped out of the shower only to realize that he hadn't thought to bring clean clothing in with him. Oh well. These were his rooms. And it was not like modesty was a big priority of his. Might as well give Draco an eyeful, if he was still there. Harry felt a small smile curl his lips. Maybe he'd even appreciate it.

***

Draco looked away from the window when he heard the bathroom door go, and felt his mouth go dry. He was sure he had never seen this much naked skin in his life. And certainly not on a young, attractive man. Unable to stop himself, his eyes ran over the plains and edges of Harry's body, muscles shifting under the pale skin of his arms and chest as he towelled his hair dry. His stomach was a tight plane, his waist slender, and his hip bones poked out over the low-slung towel that was _all_ he was wearing. His legs were long, dark hair lightly dusting his shins but not hiding the contours of hard muscle. In fact, there wasn't a gram of fat on Harry's body that Draco could see. And he could see most of it. Including the dark trail of hair that ran down the centre of his stomach, beginning under his belly button, and vanished into the towel... Draco swallowed.

He shouldn't be staring like that, he knew that. It wasn't proper. But then, neither was walking around naked. Sure, he might have caught a glimpse of a naked chest or bare legs in all the time he'd been living in a dorm, and later at the training camp with Harry, but he had always avoided looking too closely. He did _not_ need people to question his sexual orientation and start rumours- rumours that might reach his father. He shuddered slightly at the thought. The Dark Lord might actually be preferable to his father if he thought his only son and heir might not be _eager_ to ensure the next Malfoy generation. His instant reaction somewhat cooled by these old fears, he now noticed other things about Harry. Such as the greenish-purple mass of bruises that was his shoulder.

"I thought you didn't get injured!" he burst out before he could stop himself.

"Scrapes and bruises, I believe I said," Harry retorted in that dry tone of his.

"That's a bit more than scrapes and bruises, I'd say!" How could he be so cavalier about it? "How did that happen, anyway?"

Harry very pronouncedly rolled his eyes at him as he crossed the room to his bedroom door.

"God, you sound like Poppy!" He stuck his head back out the door. "And since you asked, it's what's left of Zabini's curse. Bone-breaker, from the looks of it, but my cloak caught most of it. So it really _is_ just bruises." With that, he ducked back into the bedroom, but left the door open. Draco heard the sound of drawers and fabric, and only a moment later, Harry came back out, still bare-chested, but thankfully wearing some of his black trousers. Maybe they weren't as revealing as Draco had always thought they were. Then again... they certainly didn't help him forget those long, hard legs.

Harry dropped down on the couch, laid an armful of folded cloth next to him and started to vigorously towel his hair. Draco's eyes were drawn back to his pale chest, and now he noticed the scars. Some were faint, almost invisible white lines, but a few were still pink. They were a visible reminder that this was not the Harry Potter he had grown up with. No one he knew had scars like that, he was sure of it.

An especially nasty one curved over Harry's stomach, visibly pitted as Harry leaned over slightly. It was darker than the others, though it didn't look new, and it ran in an uneven line from somewhere to the right of his belly button, under that belly button, bisecting that delectable black trail of hair, and ended in a vicious little curve over Harry's hipbone.

"Where'd you get that?" he asked, nodding towards the scar when Harry looked up. Maybe it wasn't proper to ask, but if Harry chose to run around naked around him and let him see the scars... well, he'd take that as tacit permission. Besides, it was _Harry_. Even if it wasn't.

Harry threw the towel over the back of the couch, scrubbed his hands through his hair, probably in a mostly futile attempt to tame it, then looked down at the scar.

He sighed and thoughtfully traced the waves and dips.

"You had to ask about that one, didn't you?" He looked up, gave Draco a crooked smile. "Let's just say that your alternate personality with a Dark sanctified disembowelling knife is no fun."

Disembowelling knife...?

"What would he need that for...?"

"Ritual sacrifice to summon a demon."

"Huh?" Draco was rather sure that he was supposed to understand what Harry was talking about, but the conclusions his imagination was leaping to were just too gruesome for comfort.

"A couple of years ago, the Death Eaters got into demon summoning when the war had reached a stalemate. So your alternate personality, being the rising star in the Death Eater ranks that he was, was charged with conducting the ritual. We got a tip on it, and I got there before he could finish, and I managed to Portkey the last boy out. He was in a spitting rage that I had prevented him from completing the ritual, so he tried to gut me instead." Harry cocked his head, looking thoughtful. "I think that was actually the closest he ever came to killing me. The last thing I remember is activating my own Portkey. I was in a coma for two days while Poppy worked to counteract the Dark magic infecting the wounds." He grimaced. "That blade was _foul_..."

Okay, Draco had been wrong. His imagination was falling short of the gruesome reality. But now he had to know the whole story, he just had to.

"Boy?"

Harry gave him a considering look. Whatever he saw, he nodded.

"Yes. The ritual called for the sacrifice of three seven-year-old children."

"And he really... killed them?" Draco stared at his hands. Hands that, in another reality, had been capable of slaughtering children to summon a _demon_. He might have been raised a Dark wizard, but there was just some things you didn't mess with. Creatures from other planes of existence were one those. He wondered what the bloodstains on the other Draco's hands had looked like. Had they bothered him?

"He really did," Harry's calm voice drifted into his thoughts and he looked back up. Harry cocked his head inquisitively.

"You wouldn't? Even if Voldemort ordered you to?"

"I..." He swallowed. "I don't know," he finally admitted quietly. Harry gave him a crooked smile.

"Good answer. No one knows what they might be capable off until they are in the situation. Anyone who says differently is an idealistic fool." From his tone, he didn't approve of idealistic fools.

"But at least you saved one of the kids, right?" The pleading in his voice almost made Draco wince. Harry gave him a sort of soft look... Pity?

"Well, I got him out alive..."

"But...?"

Harry gave a deep sigh. "But his mind never recovered from the 'fun' they had with him before they tried to sacrifice him."

"Oh..."

Harry rose to his feet and shrugged into the shirt he had laid down on the couch. Instead of his usual one-piece contraptions, this one had buttons and a collar. He cast Cleaning Charms at his cloak and wand holster before putting them on. Instead of heading directly to the door, however, Harry came over to the window where Draco was still leaning. For a brief moment, he squeezed his shoulder.

"It was a bad war," he said quietly. "And you're not him." Then he let go, stepped back, nodded, and left. Draco stared at the door for a long while after it had closed behind Harry, trying to decide how much he believed Harry's words.

***


	16. Chapter 16

"So, your name is...?" The Auror trailed off leadingly.

"Harold Evans."

"And you're here because...?" The leading trail-off seemed to be his favourite method of investigation.

"Professor Dumbledore hired me as an instructor for the Duelling Club." That got him a frown.

"There is no Duelling Club at this school."

"Professor Dumbledore has only recently revived the tradition. He considered it prudent that the students have more practise considering the current political situation."

"And he hired you because...?" And back to the leading trail-offs. Harry was sure he was going to become very annoyed with them very quickly.

"Lily Potter recommended me. She is my aunt, and she knew from her sister– my mother– that I had received an education strong in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Duelling. Professor Dumbledore invited me to an interview and a test-duel, and was evidently satisfied, seeing as he hired me after."

The Auror eyed him up and down with disdain.

"Lily Potter, you say? She's Muggle-born, isn't she? So her sister's... Muggle-born as well?"

"No. My mother's a Muggle."

The corners of the Auror's eyes tightened with disgust, his nostrils flaring slightly. He leaned back as if Harry had suddenly developed some sort of rank body odour.

"So you're Muggle-born as well?" he asked, his tone making it clear what he thought of Muggle-born wizards.

Harry smiled at him. "I'm not required to answer that question."

The Auror's eyes narrowed, obviously not happy with being denied. It was as polite a "mind your own damn business" as there could be, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Very well, then, Mr..."

Yes, this was really starting to get on his nerves... "Evans," Harry supplied.

"Yes, right. So you were present during the... incident at 6.30 this morning?"

"If you mean the attack on the castle by thirty disguised intruders, then yes, I was there."

That garnered him a dirty look. Oh, yes, Harry and this Auror were going to get on splendidly, he was sure of it.

"What made you assume they were intruders, and not simply wizards seeking hospitality or here for some other innocent purpose?"

"They were _disguised_." And, yes, Harry had gone through the Snape-school of adding "you blithering idiot" to the end of a sentence without ever actually saying the words. He had picked up a thing or two during all those years of being on the receiving end of that sort of scorn. "In addition, they set off the wards. Wizards with innocent intentions don't tend to do that. And the Unforgiveables they were casting once in reach were a clue, too."

Another dirty look, and was that a twitch of the man's eyelid? Interesting... could be nerves. Or it could be something more... sinister.

"Unforgiveables, you say?"

"Killing Curses, mostly; a Cruciatus or two, as well. And then there was the plethora of other illegal spells they were using when they weren't using Unforgiveables– I'm sure you will be able to confirm all of this by a simple 'Priori Incantatem' on the wands of the attackers."

The Auror leant over the table between them, twitch growing more pronounced, and stared him in the eyes. If he was trying to be intimidating, he wasn't doing a very good job of it. Harry quirked an eyebrow.

"I have fourteen dead bodies outside on that lawn, Evans. _Fourteen_! And all my witnesses agree that you killed them all." That was obviously meant to make him squirm.

"Actually, Auror...?" See, he could do the leading trail-off, too!

"Mandrake," the man bit out.

Mandrake? Now that was interesting. A minor pure-blood family of mostly herbologists and apothecaries, the Mandrakes had made a fortune through some clever investments a couple of centuries ago. Dissatisfied as members of Wizarding society's nouveaux riches they had since been eager to gain a place in the circle of the truly old families like the Malfoys. Perfect recruiting ground for Voldemort.

"Actually, Auror Mandrake, you have seventeen dead bodies on the ground out there. Surely it has not escaped your diligence that the Hogwarts faculty has lost an esteemed colleague, a personal friend of Professor Dumbledore come to help has been killed by a Killing Curse, _and_ one of your own Aurors is also amongst the dead?"

"Are you trying to be smart with me, Evans? Three versus fourteen... those are interesting odds in my book!"

Harry raised an eyebrow again. "Are you insinuating that my fortuitous presence here in the castle was a _bad_ thing? Or that this was some sort of trap aimed at the thirty people attacking this castle?"

"I'm the one asking the questions, Evans, and if you keep this up I'll have you dragged to the Ministry for questioning!"

"On what charges?" Yes, the twitch was definitely growing more pronounced.

"Mass murder, for one! Or do you deny that you killed those people?"

"I don't deny that I killed a number of the black-robed attackers with the white face masks. I didn't keep count of how many."

"A-HA!" Mandrake shot to his feet.

"However, it was clearly self-defence," Harry finished calmly.

"Self-defence?" Mandrake braced his hands on the table and leaned over, right into Harry's face. Harry refused to move backwards.

"You used magic with the clear intent to kill. You did not use the _legal_ Stunning Spell to defend yourself. _And_ I have reports aplenty that attribute a number of fatal sword and knife wounds to you, as well as an explosion caused by means unknown, but clearly originating from you."

If he had still been sixteen, Harry would have been shaking in his boots now. Unfortunately for the Auror, he wasn't sixteen anymore. And he had had _Slytherins_ as teachers.

"The Amendment to the Act on the Use of Magic for Lethal Purpose from 1426 clearly states that in the eventuality of an attack using Unforgivable Curses, the former Act will be negated, leaving the Unforgivables and several other Dark spells specified in the Prohibition of Most Dark and Foul Magic from 807 as the only illegal magic. You are, of course, welcome to use Priori Incantatem on my wand as well to confirm that I have used none of those spells."

Mandrake blinked. Too many big words at once, maybe? In that case, he had some more.

"In fact, since Hogwarts is a school and therefore a public building, the Order for the Protection of Wizarding Infrastructure from 1667 applies to it, which states clearly that in the event of an attack by Dark forces on an item of that infrastructure, every citizen of Wizarding Britain is required to defend that item to the best of their ability by any and all means their conscience allows. So what I did was not only completely legal, it was in fact my _duty_ as a citizen of Wizarding Britain."

The look Mandrake gave him was very, _very_ ugly, but there wasn’t much he could do.

“Very well,” he said stiffly. “I will report your claims to the Auror heading this investigation. Please keep yourself available for further inquiries. What is your place of residence?”

“You can find me here at Hogwarts, since I’ll be teaching.”

“And your mother’s address?” Mandrake looked at him, the quill he’d just plucked from a pocket of his Auror robes poised and ready.

Harry smiled politely. “I am not required to divulge such potentially sensitive information to the public, including the Ministry, as long as I’m not officially charged with a crime.”

That brought him another poisonous look, but Mandrake stuffed his parchment and quill away again and stormed off without further pretensions at pleasantries. Oh, how Harry loved using laws that had been implemented under the pressures of Dark pure-bloods to obstruct the Aurors against those pure-bloods.

***

“Harry! Are you all right?!”

Harry blinked at Lily, whose eyes searched his face with obvious worry. She had rushed over as soon as he’d set foot outside the little storage closet-come-interrogation room off the Entrance Hall.

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” First Draco, now Lily… everyone seemed to be worried about him for some reason.

Lily cast a look over her shoulder at where Mandrake was conferring with two other Aurors who had appeared on the scene. Harry searched in vain, however, for Kingsley Shacklebolt’s distinctive height and dark skin.

“That Auror looked ready to strangle someone when he came out. And… you’ve _killed_ people out there, there’s no way to hide that. They might try to charge you with murder!”

Harry gave her a small smile. Well, maybe it was closer to a smirk, he couldn’t quite be sure.

“That Mandrake bloke sure tried, but I’ve done nothing illegal. He won’t be able to make anything stick.”

“Nothing illegal?” a snide voice asked, and Harry looked over his shoulder to find the slightly stocky figure of the obnoxious Thaddeus guy from the Order meeting stepping up to them. “You’ve just killed more than ten wizards, when you could’ve just as easily Stunned them. It’s what _civilised_ people do.”

Harry raised a cynical eyebrow. “Yes, we all saw how _splendidly_ that tactic worked as they rushed us, and simply revived anyone going down while they covered our position with Killing Curses. But I suppose since they only outnumbered us about three to one, it would’ve been _quite_ possible to hold out for, oh, about ten minutes before they slaughtered us all. But then the Dark Lord would only have had control of Hogwarts, and the children arriving tomorrow as hostages, so I suppose that wouldn’t have been so bad. Much better to be ripped to pieces like civilised people, I’m sure.”

The redness climbing up the other man’s neck reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon, which did nothing to improve his feelings for the man.

“And that is what you are going to teach impressionable young children? How to murder their fellow wizards in cold blood?”

“I’m going to teach them how to survive an encounter with Death Eaters,” Harry answered coolly, keeping his temper in check with a lot of effort. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Death Eaters don’t seem to feel much fellowship with the ordinary wizard, if the torturing and raping and murdering is anything to go by.”

“There is no need for your crudity,” ‘Thaddeus’ answered, spine stiff. “And that is precisely the reason why we have to preserve our standards of conduct and can not allow ourselves to sink to the level of the Death Eaters.”

Five years ago, Harry might have thought the man had a point. Now, he knew the answer to this exactly.

“So if you were alone and encountered a group of Death Eaters torturing a child, you would consider your precious moral high ground more important than that child’s life and sanity?”

“What… what are you trying to imply?”

Harry shrugged. "I'm not implying. I'm questioning your priorities." He cocked his head. "Would you put morality over lives? Would you let innocents die if it meant compromising your precious principles? Would you be able to look at yourself in the mirror and consider your hands clean of blood?"

"You raise difficult questions, Harry," a mild, old voice said and Harry turned to see Dumbledore join their group. "Questions I am sure we will not find an answer to standing about in the Entrance Hall. Come, let us move into the Great Hall and have breakfast. Questions on matters of life and death are best discussed with a full stomach, I think."

Somewhat reluctantly, Harry submitted to the old man's peace-making and let himself be ushered into the Great Hall with the others, bringing up the rear next to Dumbledore.

"You should keep an eye on that one," Harry said quietly, inclining his head towards Mandrake.

"Oh?" Dumbledore raised bushy white eyebrows in question.

Harry nodded. "Yep. He's a Death Eater. Probably," he amended.

"What makes you say that, my boy?"

" _Harry_ ," Harry emphasized, and Dumbledore inclined his head after a quick, surprised blink. Well, Harry had to give the old man credit, he was doing rather well in breaking the habit of a lifetime– a very _long_ lifetime. "He's a Mandrake. Dissatisfied, minor pure-bloods with new money. Social climbers. Perfect recruiting ground for Voldemort."

"You would judge a wizard simply by his family name?" Dumbledore asked, managing to sound reprimanding even though his voice only expressed mild curiosity. Harry raised an eyebrow at the old wizard.

"Of course not. He also showed clear prejudice against my Muggle heritage. And his eyelid was twitching when he got worked up."

"Oh?"

"Excessive use of the Dark Arts can cause physical symptoms– for example muscle spasms, nervous twitches," Harry explained, though Dumbledore surely knew this himself. "So can over-exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, which we know Voldemort is fond of using on his followers as well as his enemies."

"You make a sound argument, my... Harry. I shall have one of our contacts keep an eye on him."

Harry nodded at the old man, then moved off to take his seat among the other teachers at the head table.

His eyes strayed to the empty seat down the table, on Dumbledore's other side, next to McGonagall. He hadn't had a chance to look at the bodies yet, and he knew Hermione's death would only truly sink in for him when he saw her dead with his own eyes.

Lily took a seat next to him in a rustle of robes, smoothing them out of the way as she sat down with the absent-minded routine of years of practice. Harry felt his eyebrow rise slightly when James used the same gesture as he took the chair on the other side of his wife. He might have spent half his life in the Wizarding world by now, but things seemed to be so much more... _Wizarding_ here. The only people he had known who hadn't worn some form of trousers under their robes were the old wizards and witches of Dumbledore's generation. Even Severus, even _Draco_ wore boxers and dress slacks under their Wizarding attire, and considering they were two of the most conservative wizards he knew, he felt confident to conclude that things like _under robes_ were not a common occurrence in 'his' Wizarding world. He focused with a mental sigh on the plate in front of him that had just filled with food. This strange/familiar thing was driving him crazy. And he didn't know whether the lack of Hermione made it better or worse. He didn't even know what he felt about her death. One part of him argued that he should be devastated at losing one of his best friends. Another part of him argued that he hadn't really known her and she wasn't, after all, _his_ Hermione. He hadn't had any time to really get to know her, after all.

***

It turned out that seeing her dead with his own eyes didn't help to dispel his confusion any. If anything, it made things worse.

Harry stood in the long, empty room where the bodies of those killed in the battle were arrayed, in one long, neat row, on the worn flagstones of the floor. He stared at her still, pale face. Her eyes were closed, and she looked almost peaceful, almost like she was sleeping. The lack of any visible cause of death was what Harry had always found most disturbing about the Killing Curse. From what he had heard, Hermione'd been under the Cruciatus for almost half a minute before she was killed. From the description, it sounded like it had been Bellatrix, sneaking around the back of the castle.

Harry crouched down, reached out a hand to brush a single loose corkscrew curl out of Hermione's face.

“Silly girl,” he murmured quietly. “I said no heroics, remember? But you always thought you knew better than me, didn't you? Pity you had to be wrong this one time.”

Her death hurt, he acknowledged, no matter how much his rational mind insisted on pointing out all the little differences that made her not his Hermione. The bun that was still mostly intact at the back of her head, the robes she was wearing, how pale she was, no trace of a tan. Too many hours spend inside, huddled over books, no doubt. Still... he was sad he hadn't gotten to know her better, and he was disturbed to see what the last of his best friends looked like dead.

“I know you're not my Hermione, but I'll still get Bella for you, I promise,” he whispered, and then gently dragged the folds of the sheet that covered her body back over her face.

He rose, and his boots echoed in the silent room as he briefly looked beneath all the other sheets, checked which Death Eaters had died today, before the Aurors came to take them all away. Bright spring sunlight streamed in through a wall full of high windows, dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. It was all inordinately cheerful, but such, he had long since learned, was life. The weather rarely matched the mood of any occasion. It might rain buckets at a wedding, and the sun shone as bright as on any other day at funerals.

It had been a beautiful day when they had buried Remus' mostly empty coffin. At first, Harry had been furious and frustrated, had hated the sun and the birds and the bright green grass... but then he had remembered Remus' gentle smile and kind eyes, and somehow, had thought that Remus would like to be buried on a beautiful day like that, that it was fitting. Somehow, it had become a comfort to know that, no matter what atrocities Voldemort committed, no matter his aspirations for immortality, no matter whether Harry full-filled his duty or failed miserably, the sun and the rain, the clouds and the earth and the animals wouldn't care.

He stayed for a moment longer, stepped into one of those shafts of sunlight, felt the warmth on his face, and then turned to go. He'd said his good-byes, and he felt better for it. He just hoped that his Hermione was well wherever she was.

***

“Oh, sorry...” he automatically muttered when he almost ran into someone as he stepped out into the corridor. Then he looked up, and recognized the man. “Sirius! Sorry, didn't see you there.”

He smiled and hoped it didn't waver, because his heart was pounding oddly fast. God, he hadn't been this close to this man in so many years, hadn't thought he would be ever again!

Sirius, however, merely scowled at him.

“What were _you_ doing in there?” He nodded at the room Harry had just stepped out of.

Harry frowned at Sirius for the less than friendly tone, but answered nonetheless. “Just saying my good-byes to Hermione, and checking who the Death Eaters were.”

Sirius sneered at him. “Looking for lost friends?”

Harry blinked. “Among the _Death Eaters_? Hardly. The only friend I lost today is Hermione. Besides, _I_ killed them. I'd hardly do that if they were my friends, now would I?” Fine, so maybe sarcasm wasn't the best way to respond right now, but Harry felt rather off-balance, faced with a Sirius glowering at him with dislike.

“Exactly,” Sirius growled, giving a good impression of his Animagus form, “you killed them. I've only ever seen Death Eaters kill like that.”

Harry threw up his hands in frustration. “Trust me, I'd love to be all nice and pacifist about this and end this war with nothing but a couple of Stunners, but you _know_ that's not possible! You're an Auror, you know how Death Eaters are! They would've killed _us_ , they would've tortured us, and personally, I don't want to imagine what they would've done to those children arriving tomorrow if we hadn't stopped them! So, yeah, I killed them before they could kill me, and everyone else they'd have come across. I'm sorry if that isn't politically correct, I'm sorry if I'm stepping on your toes here, I'm sorry if that isn't _civilized_ , but if I have to be uncivilized to survive, to save lives, then I _will_!”

Sirius blinked, then scowled again. “Pretty words, boy, but make no mistake.” He leaned in, way into Harry's personal space. “I don't know what you've told Albus, I don't know what you've told James and Lily, but to _me_ you're still the same ungrateful _brat_ who spurned everything his family stood for, who broke his mother's heart, to run away and become a Death Eater. I'll be watching you until you've _proved_ that you're any different from that waste of space I had to call my godson.”

Harry rocked back as if he'd been slapped at the vicious words, echoes of hated old insults tumbling through his head, old insecurities, old feelings of worthlessness, old, old anger flaring to life in his gut. And, God, it was _Sirius_ , not Vernon, it was a man he loved and respected, not one whose opinion had long ceased to matter, and that made it much, much worse. He had to take a deep breath, slam up every Occlumency wall he had, to keep his temper, and his power, in check.

“I've never been a Death Eater,” he said coldly, reaching for every bit of Snape's cool control he could channel, “and I never will be. Funny, though, how in _my_ world, _you_ 've spent twelve years in Azkaban as the man who betrayed my parents to Voldemort.” Yes, it was a low shot, but Sirius moved back satisfactorily, out of Harry's personal space, and that was a very good thing right now. “And killed thirteen innocent people while on the run, to boot.”

“I did _what_?!”

It was tempting, it really was, to keep up the pretence, but Harry knew he wouldn't be able to look himself in the eyes in the mirror if he did, so he sighed.

“You got set up and were, in fact, innocent,” he admitted. “Still, preconceptions are powerful things, and I'd be grateful if you didn't confuse me with my alternate personality. I'm no more him than you are that man who lost everything and spent twelve years innocent in Azkaban.”

Unfortunately, his plea wasn't as effective as he'd hoped. Sirius' eyes narrowed again, and he snorted disparagingly. “At least _I_ was never a Death Eater, unlike _you_. You'll have to do better if you want to convince me. And, look, there comes your Death Eater pal Snivellus, so I'll be getting on with my job. Which, in case you were wondering, is to keep innocent people safe from the likes of you and your _friends_.”

He whirled around and stalked off into the room before Harry could pick his jaw up from the floor and find a suitable reply. He was still staring at the empty doorway when Snape stepped up to him.

“I take it that did not go so well?” The irony was thick in his voice, but when Harry looked up, Snape only looked mildly enquiring, one eyebrow lifted a fraction. He breathed out deeply.

“No. No, that didn't go well at all.”

“You expected something different?”

Harry automatically fell into step with the man as they moved off down the corridor, towards the Entrance Hall and the main staircase.

“Yes, I expected something different. I mean, obviously he's not the man I knew in my world, but... sheesh, he could have been polite at least!”

Snape made a low sound which Harry recognized as his special noise which combined a disdainful snort with a chuckle. It had taken him over a year to decipher that it meant Snape thought he was an idiot, but an amusing one.

“I do not know what version of Sirius Black you have met in your world, but I assure you that _politeness_ has never been a characteristic, or concern, of this one.”

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and couldn't help a rueful chuckle of his own. “I suppose you're right, as usual. Still, his level of animosity... it was a bit of a shock, I admit.”

“Black has a very simplistic view of the world, which centres mostly on himself. As such, he could never forgive that his godson embraced the lifestyle and culture he himself had taken such pains to reject. And not only that, he did it while being in the same House. As far as I know, his Sorting into Gryffindor marked the beginning of Black's break with his family. It must seem like a personal insult to him that his godson managed to be a Gryffindor _and_ establish contacts in pure-blood society where he felt forced to choose between the one and the other.”

They walked for several minutes in silence, their boots echoing along the corridor in almost perfect synch.

“Huh,” Harry said then. “I've never looked at it that way. That Sirius felt forced to choose, I mean. It explains a lot though...”

Snape snorted. “Oh, do not go and excuse his shortcomings simply because you feel you might have a glimpse of his motives. He is still an arrogant, egoistical bully, perfectly suited for work as an Auror. No matter what his background, it does not excuse his failings as a human being.”

Harry couldn't help but grin at the man. “Aw, Snape, I can feel the love there, really I can...”

The glare he got in response was truly frightful.

“Do _not_ joke about that. Ever.”

Harry put on his straightest face. “Sorry, sir.”

Snape actually stopped mid-step to turn and look at him, eyebrow arching up. “Did you just address me as 'sir'?”

Harry arched an eyebrow back. “I do that. Occasionally. Very occasionally,” he amended as they continued their walk. “And you're supposed to offer some form of positive reinforcement when I do.”

The eyebrow was still up. “I am?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, to help get me over my 'ridiculous issues with male authority'.” He made sure to include the appropriate air quotes.

A smirk curled Snape's lips, a smirk Harry had missed a lot. “I see. And what form of positive reinforcement would you like to be rewarded with?”

Harry cocked his head, considering that. The usual was out, of course.

“How about another training duel? I could use the workout...”

“That would be... acceptable. The Great Hall will be filled with students after tomorrow, however, and I assume you have had all the necessary workout today.”

Harry smirked at the wry tone. “That I have. How about that little courtyard with the gargoyle statue, behind the Transfiguration corridor?”

“Very well. Shall we say tomorrow before lunch? I will be able to make some time then, and I assume your duties will start in the afternoon.”

“You assume right.” That got him a minor glare, but Harry just grinned. “I'll see you at around eleven then?”

“Very well.”

“Cool.” Snape looked less than impressed with Harry's assessment, but they had reached the Entrance Hall, so Harry just gave him another cheeky grin and a wave before starting up the stairs towards Dumbledore's office to get himself some information about those Ministry guidelines about “hazardous and potentially perilous spell-casting” Draco had mentioned. From everything he'd seen during the last couple of days, what he planned on teaching the children would probably not be conforming to those guidelines. And it was always good to know what they were going to cite against him in advance.

***

  



	17. Chapter 17

As Harry charmed the large sign-up sheet for the Duelling Club to the noticeboard in the Entrance Hall on Monday morning, he wondered what the response would be. At the staff meeting, it had been decided that the students would be offered the choice between two time slots, two hours before dinner on Thursdays and Fridays respectively. Harry, remembering his own experience in second year and the utter chaos that had ensued when a school full of inexperienced children had been granted permission to use their wands on each other with only two teachers supervising, had strongly vetoed the notion of teaching more than forty students, at the very maximum, at once, and therefore would not hold the one big meeting that the other teachers had envisioned. He smiled slightly at the memories. Hopefully, he would do a better job than Lockhard, and hopefully, his club would be a bit longer-lived. 

He stepped back to see whether the poster was straight, and couldn't help but feel a little excited and apprehensive at the same time. The more he prepared for it, the more he was actually looking forward to teaching, but the more he prepared the more he also noticed how much _more_ he could, theoretically, prepare. There was so much he wanted to teach these children, but there were only three months left in the school year, and also, he had to take their ages and previous knowledge into account. If he could, he wouldn't let a single one of them out of these walls without the ability to take care of themselves. Yes, that was supposedly what DADA was all about, but really? He had since looked over the curriculum Professor Prattleworth taught, courtesy of the headmaster, and also those ridiculous Ministry guidelines. It truly was Umbridge all over again. The worst of it was, when he'd expressed some his scorn in the teacher's lounge this morning, no one seemed to find anything wrong with them. These people were so used to their safe little world they seemed incapable of envisioning the madness and carnage Voldemort was going to unleash on them. It was as if they couldn't even conceive of the sheer cruel brutality Death Eaters were capable of. And this generation of children was even further removed from that reality than their parents and teachers were. At least some of _them_ still remembered the war against Grindlewald, though mostly as something they read about in the paper, as Grindlewald had wreaked most of his destruction on the Continent. More present was the damage caused by the accompanying World War II, but wards could shield property and people against explosions, and bombs, for all their horrific destructive force, were impersonal. Most of these people, apart from the handful of Order and staff members involved in the two recent attacks on the castle, had never faced a wizard out to hurt them just for a laugh. But they would– Harry had seen it happen once before. So would their children, and Harry was determined to do his best to make sure to give them every advantage he could. There was nothing he could do for the parents at this point, but maybe the children would take some of their new skills home and teach them to their families.

***

When Harry collected the sign-up sheet after dinner on Tuesday, he was a little astonished to see the moderate amount of names on it. Only 55 of his eighty slots were filled. It had seemed like the entire school was there when the Duelling Club in his own second year had been held. With so few participants, he was able to give everyone their preferred spot, and he found that he had a slightly larger group on Thursdays. Most of the students were from the younger years. No one from fifth year and up had signed up, and only one fourth year, a Ravenclaw named John Talbot. There were a handful of third years, but the gros of the students were second and first years, mostly Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, with a mere sprinkling of Slytherins and not a single Hufflepuff. When he checked the list of students currently enrolled in Hogwarts that Dumbledore had provided him with he saw that he seemed to have the entire first year contingent of Gryffindors, and all but two of the second years. All of them had signed up for Thursday, plus two more Gryffindor third years, so that he had nineteen Gryffindors in that group. Only one lone third year had signed up for Friday, where he otherwise had a whole lot of Ravenclaws. There were only five Slytherins all together, three on Thursdays and the other two on Fridays. Harry wondered whether he ought to do anything about the unequal distribution of the houses, then shrugged and decided to see how it went. If it was a problem, he could still fix it later.

***

Somewhat nervously, Harry fidgeted with his wand holster before taking a deep breath, told himself not to be a chicken and opened the door to the classroom a good ten minutes before four o'clock on Thursday afternoon. They were just kids, after all. How scary could they be?

After he'd informed the Headmaster of the somewhat lacklustre response to the club, Dumbledore had cheerfully assigned him his own classroom. The castle was big, after all, there were plenty of rooms to be had, and for thirty students, he didn't need the Great Hall. So he had spent Wednesday surveying his new kingdom, deciding on how many desks and chairs to keep, and generally feeling both proud and in acute danger of a severe case of stage fright. He even had his own attached office! That still looked rather bare, its only furnishings a big, intimidating teacher's desk, a chair that had seen better days, and empty shelves along one wall. The view, both from the office and the classroom, was nice, though. He was on the third floor, close enough to the main stairs so the students could get to dinner in a conveniently short time, but in a corridor that was far enough away from both the Charms corridor and the Trophy Room that he could teach in peace. The house elves had banished the dust and cleaned the window panes until they gleamed. 

When Harry entered the classroom he found that his nervousness had been quite unnecessary, because none of the students were there yet. He crossed the room to the teacher's desk and hopped up on it to await the first arrivals. The desk was pushed all the way to the wall under the blackboard, as were a few more along the other walls. He'd stacked enough chairs for everyone in the corners, but if people wanted to write things down, they would have to share space. He didn't expect there to be much writing, however, and he would certainly need the big empty space in the middle of the classroom. 

As he surveyed his classroom, he reviewed once more the plans he had for this first meeting in his head. He still wasn't sure whether what he had planned was the best idea, but it was what he _wanted_ to teach. If it created problems with the parents or the Ministry... what if Dumbledore, what if the school as a whole would take the heat for what he had in mind? Worse... what if the kids didn't like it? What if they didn't like _him_?…

He took another deep breath and told himself he was prepared, he could always change his methods if they caused too many problems. Before he could either properly freak out or calm himself down the door creaked open and a group of kids shuffled in nervously. There were four of them, all Ravenclaws. They looked around the room, and hesitated half-way through the door when their eyes fell on Harry. He sat still, feeling oddly like he was trying not to startle small shy animals away. 

“Um, excuse me, Sir,” the boy in the front spoke up, brown eyes large and earnest behind a pair of glasses, “is this the Duelling Club?” He was taller than the others, probably a second year, and Harry smiled at him.

“Yes, it is. Come on in, there's plenty of room for everyone.”

They entered, studying Harry's set-up with puzzled faces, and finally drifted to the side, to one of the tables. Another few hesitant looks were cast Harry's way, but then they formed a tight little group, book bags hitting the floor under the table, and two of the first years followed Harry's example and took a seat on the table. In a moment, they seemed to have entirely forgotten Harry's presence and fell into a muted conversation. Since the room was otherwise quiet, Harry could make out quite a few words. They were obviously continuing the conversation they had had before they entered the room, discussing an upcoming Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. It was really rather strange, but Harry remembered how it had been to be that young, how little attention he and his friends had paid to their surroundings, how adults, especially teachers, had sometimes seemed like an entirely different species who they generally didn't need to pay too much attention to outside a classroom setting. It had always felt a little as if adults moved on some different plane and wouldn't understand the concerns of children. Now he wondered how many of their childish 'secrets' had actually been secrets, just how obvious they had been when they hadn't done their homework properly or played pranks, how much of Snape's and McGonagall's seeming sixth sense for mischief had rather been good observation, how often Flitwick or Sprout had simply indulged them. God knew, Snape had been on his case about paying attention to what was going on around him all through his first year of training. 

While Harry was lost in such reminiscence, the room slowly filled up, students arriving alone or in little groups. Now that they weren't the first to enter, they mostly gave Harry no more than a curious look or two and then congregated in a growing crowd towards the end of the room. Harry was amused that it was the Ravenclaws who arrived first. A few Gryffindors began to show up at around five to four, and then his three Thursday Slytherins entered quietly and huddled themselves into one corner, as far away as possible from him and the other students. When it was only moments before the bell, Harry slid off the desk. A ripple ran through the crowd of students as they turned to face him. He scanned the group, but there were definitely still a lot of Gryffindors missing. He was about to ask those present about their missing house mates, when raised child voices and a rush of footsteps sounded outside in the corridor. The door opened, and a large group of children tumbled into the room, faces flushed, robes rumpled and out of breath. They hurried in and straightened up, looked at Harry with big, innocent eyes as the bell rang. He bit back a smile and took a step forward. 

“Welcome,” he greeted, and was glad as his voice came out smooth and even. “I'm Harold Evans, and I'm glad to see you all here for the first meeting of the Duelling Club. Before we get started, I thought I'd say a few words about what I'm planning on doing in these meetings.” He scanned the faces before him, and found them all attentive. Satisfied, he gave a little nod. 

“Now, you are all aware that this is a club, not a class. As such, it is entirely voluntary. You can leave at any time, and you don't have to participate in any activity that isn't to your tastes.” There was a little bit of shifting, confused glances exchanged at his words. “I _am_ entitled to give or take house points, and I am also entitled to assign detentions if my instructions aren't followed. You're wondering why I'm telling you all this.” He looked at these small faces seriously. “This club has been instituted because of the current political situation. You are all aware, I'm sure, of the threat of Tom Riddle, who calls himself Voldemort and has declared himself Dark Lord. Since last week, we are officially at war with him and his followers. In short, these are dangerous times, and they will likely become more so before things get better. The Headmaster has founded this club and hired me to help you protect yourselves. Despite its name, I will not teach you how to duel.” Muttering and a few startled exclamations greeted that pronouncement. Harry held his hands up, and the students quieted again. “What I _will_ teach you is how to fight; how to survive; how to protect yourselves and your loved ones. What I will teach you will also not comply with the Ministry recommendations for 'hazardous and potentially perilous spell-casting'. As I said, participation in any activity will be entirely voluntary. But if you really want to profit from this class, participation is necessary. Also, since some of those activities _are_ potentially dangerous, I take obedience to my instructions very seriously. I will not hesitate with taking points or issuing detentions if my instructions are ignored. Depending on the severity of the occasion, I will also not hesitate to push for expulsion if any student endangers themselves or others recklessly. Am I clear on that?”

The children nodded, looking decidedly less enthusiastic than they had.

“Good.” Harry smiled at them, trying to ease the tension again, and rubbed his hands together. “Let's finally get started then. Please sort yourselves into two groups as equal in size and magical strength as you can make them.” 

He looked at them expectantly, and after some hesitation, the students started to separate into two groups. Harry didn't think they were equal in strength, but that was one of the lessons the students were about to learn. The big group of Gryffindor firsties refused to be separated and there were some distrustful looks and malicious sneers before the three Slytherins were integrated into the Ravenclaw-strong other group.

“Very good,” he praised once the last student had shuffled into his group. “Now, for the next ten minutes, I want you to hex each other to the very best of your abilities.” 

All heads whipped around to stare at him, and he just had to grin at their pole-axed expressions. “Oh, don't worry, there are a few rules.” A few of them, mostly Gryffindors, hesitantly started to answer his grin. 

“First: No spells above Epsilon level. You are all familiar with Kosolovsky's scale of rating spells?” They all nodded. Well, at least one good thing had come out of Prattleworth's theoretical DADA lessons. Harry had first heard of Kosolovsky's scale when Snape had taught him. 

“This is one of those cases where I expect you to follow my instruction to the letter. If I catch anyone using a spell above level Epsilon, I will petition the Headmaster for expulsion, and that student will not be welcome in this club again.” He waited for their nods of acknowledgement before he continued. He could already see the Slytherins sizing up the opposing Gryffindors.

“Second: The group with the most members standing after ten minutes wins. Third: If you're hit, and you need help, just send up a bunch of red sparks, and I'll come. _However_ , anyone who asks for my help is not allowed to continue. If you ask for help, you're disqualified for the rest of the exercise. Lastly: anything else is game. Any questions?”

After a moment of silence, the Ravenclaw Second year who'd been the first to arrive, raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr...?” 

“Sethwyk, Sir. You really want us to... hex each other?”

“Yes, I do.” Harry smiled at the boy. “Don't tell me you are all such good friends that you can't find it in you to have a friendly little mock fight?” The boy coloured, and he wasn't the only one. There was a general shuffling of feet and ducking of heads. 

Harry chuckled. “Yes, that's what I thought. I hereby give you my permission to hex each other six ways to Sunday. Anyone who doesn't want to participate is of course free to just step back.” He waited a moment, but although a few looked uncomfortable, peer pressure prevailed and they all stayed put. “Very well. You have five minutes to discuss tactics within your groups. On my signal, you may start. Anyone who starts before my signal will be instantly disqualified.”

He stepped back, and the groups eyed each other warily, then moved to opposite ends of the classroom to whisper furiously among themselves. Harry watched them with a critical eye. 

This wasn't going to be pretty. The group that included the three Slytherins and an assortment of Ravenclaws and second year Gryffindors was arguing, from the sound of it. They could be the stronger one, because they had less first years than the other group, but Harry could see that not much in the way of team work would be forthcoming. The other group consisted to three quarters of that large first-year Gryffindor contingent, and while they were promising as a group, they weren't including the other five students in their discussion. 

The five minutes were soon up, and Harry clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. Anxious looks passed between the group members, and the hand of one of the first-year Gryffindor girls shot up. 

“Yes, Miss...?”

“Rose Callaghan, Sir. We're not finished, Sir, we need some more time.”

Harry shook his head. “I said five minutes, Miss Callaghan, and five minutes it is. Begin.”

He stepped back. She opened her mouth, ready to argue, and was promptly hit by a Tarantallegra. Predictably, it had come from one of the Slytherins, a first year. The Gryffindors around her roared in indignation, and retaliated. With that, it was on. Hexes flew thick and fast, and Harry kept a sharp eye out to make sure none of them were outside the rules, helped by a few subtle detection spells he had cast nonverbally over the classroom while the kids were plotting. 

There wasn't much finesse, just as he had expected. Spells flew back and forth, half of them missed their targets, and it was barely two minutes before the first red sparks went up. He was kept busy then, moving around the sides of the room and ducking between students to grab those who wanted rescue. He spelled away feathers and bat bogeys, stopped twitching feet and growing teeth and healed a few bruises and one bleeding nose, where an elbow had connected with a boy's face as his fellow group member was a bit too enthusiastic in his spell-casting. He herded the healed students to the front of the classroom, where they could watch the chaos safely from behind a minor ward. 

There weren't many students left when he called the brawl off. A quick, nonverbal Expelliarmus disarmed the first year Slytherin who had thrown the first hex, and who thought he could sneak in a last one after Harry's whistle. Harry met the rebellious blue eyes, and held the boy's gaze until he reluctantly ducked his head. 

“Congratulations,” he told the boy's group, “you are the winners.” He surveyed the four survivors. “Though, not by much. Now, those of you who are fit, be so good and start getting chairs for everyone, while I fix the rest of you up. Then we'll discuss what this little exercise has taught us.” He handed the Slytherin boy his wand, and got started.

The other students started to get chairs and Harry directed them to form a circle with them while he restored a little girl's pig-tails to their natural honey blond colour. 

Soon enough, he settled himself into a chair and looked into a circle of curious and apprehensive faces. The students didn't seem entirely comfortable at sitting in such close proximity to a teacher and Harry found himself flanked by two Ravenclaws, one of them Sethwyk, the other a dark-skinned boy, so tall that Harry would've guessed him as a fourth year if he didn't know that there were no fourth years in this class. 

He leaned back in his chair, trying to project calm and reassurance. “Now, what was your impression from our little mock battle? What surprised you? What would you do different next time?”

Again there was a little silence while everyone waited for someone else to take the first shot. Harry patiently waited for someone to find their courage. He wasn't particularly surprised when it was Sethwyk who raised his hand. For a Ravenclaw, he certainly had his share of courage, at least in a classroom setting.

“Yes, Mr Sethwyk?”

“Um, well... I was surprised at how chaotic it was. I didn't think there'd be so much noise and all...” He trailed off and blushed, and Harry could tell he didn't quite know whether that was a valid observation to make. 

Harry inclined his head in agreement. “A very good point, Mr Sethwyk.” Harry hesitated a moment, but then followed through on his impulse. “Take five points for Ravenclaw, for an honest and valid observation, and the courage to go first.” He grinned at the boy, who flushed even more, but beamed at the same time. Dear God, they were young. “Do the rest of you agree? Did that also surprise you?” Nods and murmurs of agreement came from around the circle. Even the Slytherins deigned to look interested. “I'm glad, because that was one of the main points I wanted to show you with this exercise. That's why it is important to participate, even though I know that not all of you were entirely comfortable with it.” He smiled, and managed to coax out a few hesitant smiles in return. “And yes, battles, no matter on which scale, are always like that. Now, can you think of what that means?” They exchanged confused glances, and Rose Callaghan, another natural leader if he was any judge, frowned at him. “What I'm asking is, what sort of problems does that create for you if you find yourself in a battle? And can you think of any solutions? Yes, Mr...?”

“Robinson, Sir,” answered the small Gryffindor boy and took his hand down. “I thought it was really difficult to concentrate.” That garnered nods of agreement around the circle, more enthusiastic this time.

“It was really hard to aim,” another boy spoke up. 

“Yeah, I almost hit someone from my own group!” one of the Ravenclaw third years agreed.

“And I was hit by a spell, but I don't even know where it came from,” a slim, tiny Gryffindor girl piped up. 

“Me too!” another agreed.

Harry nodded seriously. “You've just summed up the main difficulties in a battle: chaos, distractions, friendly fire, and the sheer unpredictability. Now, do you have any ideas on what to do about that?” There was a thoughtful silence, then Rose Callaghan raised her hand. 

“Yes, Miss Callaghan?”

“Maybe everyone shouldn't be casting at once? Or, you know, people shouldn't be running about, and get in the way of spells from the back.”

“But you have to get out of the way!” a second year argued back. Harry raised his hands, stopping the emerging argument in its tracks. 

“First, that's a very good start, Miss Callaghan. Five points to Gryffindor for sound tactical thinking. As for your argument, Miss...?”

The girl coloured. “Sorry, Professor. I'm Maggie Brown, Sir.”

“Any relation to Lavender Brown?” Harry asked curiously. 

“She's my aunt, Sir. Do you know her?”

Harry smiled. While a Gryffindor as well, this girl seemed much more sensible than the giggly girl Harry remembered. But then, maybe she would have grown up had she had the chance to. 

“Not personally, no, but my own aunt, Professor Potter, mentioned her at some point.” He thought it was a safe bet that Lily would have at least heard of the girl. And it was bloody strange to refer to the woman who was not his mother as 'Professor Potter'. 

“Well, Miss Brown, you are right as well, of course. If you're in the front, you don't just want to stand there and be hit by spells. Any ideas, anyone?”

“There's the shield charms we've studied in Defense Against the Dark Arts,” one of the third-year Ravenclaws spoke up. “Janice Merryweather, Sir,” she answered at Harry's questioning look. “Those charms should be able to deflect a minor hex.”

“So a part of the group can cast hexes while others, maybe from the back, keep up shield charms!” Sethwyk spoke up excitedly. There were calls of agreement and eager nods around the circle. Harry smiled.

“Very, very good. That's indeed a sound strategy. If you find yourselves in a fight where you have a confrontation like we had today, two groups facing each other, pretty much stationary, that's the way to go about it. The important things in a situation like that are a division between defensive and offensive tasks, those that attack and those that support the attackers, and that everyone does their job. In a situation like that it's also imperative that you don't get into each other's way, as Miss Callaghan said. So you stay in your spot, and you only move as a group. It's also important that you keep your formation tight, and in an ordered line. The group with the better discipline will often win a confrontation like that, even with smaller numbers or lesser power. So, why do you think the group that won did so?”

“Well, it wasn't because they had more _discipline_ ,” Rose Callaghan muttered rebelliously. Since everyone else was silent, the comment carried quiet well, and she flushed. Harry smiled at the girl. 

“No, I don't think they did,” he agreed peaceably. “What advantage did they have?”

“They cheated!” She crossed her arms and glared across the circle at the Slytherin boy who had attacked her. “Rookwood hexed me before we were ready!” 

The boy sneered at her, crossed his arms as well, but didn't comment. His pale eyes fixed on Harry, and for an eleven-year old, he had a pretty impressive stare. 

“He certainly did attack you before you were ready,” Harry observed. “But did he cheat? I had already told you to begin.”

“But...!” She looked at him with betrayed, indignant eyes.

“Your classmate, Miss Callaghan, taught you a very valuable lesson. Tell me, if we repeat this exercise, will he catch you unawares again?”

She glared at her fellow student, jaw set in a stubborn line. “No. But it wasn't fair!”

“No, it wasn't fair,” Harry agreed. “But it was inside the rules. Therefore, Mr Rookwood, five points to Slytherin for seizing a fortunate opportunity.” The boy blinked at him, carefully crafted mask slipping to show a surprised little boy, while the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws stared at him with varying degrees of outrage. Harry held up his hands, palms out. “You're all aware, of course, that our little mock battle doesn't compare to a real fight. What you have to realize, what you have to _internalize_ , is that, in a real battle, there are no rules. None. No one will tell you when to begin and when to stop. No one will impose a limit on what spells are to be used. What Mr Rookwood added to our exercise was the faintest taste of that lack of rules. In a real battle, as in so much of real life, no one cares about fairness. That is not nice, and it's not as things should be, but it's the way things are, and, I think, will always be.”

“But, Sir!” Rose protested. 

He smiled at her. “Yes?”

“I don't believe that! There are rules in real life! There are laws, and Aurors to make sure they're followed and to punish people if they break them! And it's what our teachers and parents teach us, too!”

“You're not wrong,” Harry acknowledged, “but that's not the entire picture. I'm not saying having a code of morals is bad. In fact, I strongly encourage you to have such a code, and to stick to it. What I'm trying to tell you is: Don't take it for granted that other people follow that code as well. For example, do you think Tom Riddle cares about the law?”

“No, of course not,” Rose answered, and head shakes agreed with her. “But he's wrong! He should!”

Harry nodded. “Yes, he should. But he doesn't, and that's why we're trying to stop him. But do you think _he_ sees it that way? Do you think he thinks of himself as being in the wrong?”

“I don't know... I guess not?”

Harry had to smile at her face, scrunched up in confusion as he demanded of her to think about concepts that many adults never challenged. “Well, I can only guess as well, but I assume he considers himself fully within his rights. And the important point I'm trying to get across to you all is this: Don't be blind to that. We are facing difficult times, and I think most of you realize that, and that's why you're here. I want to give you the tools so you have the best possible chance of surviving, of protecting yourself and your loved ones. Be brave, be strong, be courageous and good... and be aware that not everybody you meet is that way. Be careful. Watch out for yourselves. Don't assume someone wouldn't want to hurt you just because they seem nice. What Mr Rookwood taught you is: be aware of your surroundings. Or, as an old Auror friend of mine liked to put it: Constant vigilance. What Mr Rookwood also taught you is this: if you see an opening to strike at someone you know is an enemy, use it– especially if you're a child faced with an adult who wants to hurt you. If you're outmatched, chivalry is not your friend, but cunning might help you survive. If it comes down to a choice between life and playing fair... well, you have to draw the line yourselves, but I would much prefer you chose life.”

They looked at him, quiet and uneasy, and he saw fear on more than one face. It made him sad that he had to disillusion these children so, but coddling them wouldn't do them any favours, he was convinced of that.

“Professor Evans?” 

Harry turned his head to look at Sethwyk, whose quiet voice had broken the silence, and who was looking at him with big eyes.

“Yes, Mr Sethwyk?”

“Is it true what they wrote in the paper, that you fought in the attack on Saturday?”

Harry nodded at the boy. “Yes, it's true.”

“And is it true that you killed a lot of people?”

Harry nodded again. “Yes, that's true, too. I killed fourteen people that day, that I'm aware of.”

“How can you not know?” Janice Merryweather spoke up, a frown on her face. 

Harry shrugged. “I'm pretty sure I wounded a few more people, and I don't know whether they made it or not.”

“Oh...”

The children stared at him, half-fascinated and half-horrified.

“Was that like you just said?” Robinson asked. “Where you had to choose between being fair and staying alive?”

Harry smiled again, hoping to set them a little more at ease again, and nodded at the boy. “Yes. Yes, it was. You see, there were a lot more of them than of us. Yes, I could have stunned them. But then what? The others would just revive them again! We'd have to stun and/or bind them quicker than their comrades could free them again, and we weren't enough people for that. I don't like to kill, really, I don't. I believe in giving people second chances, and if you kill someone, well, then they're dead. It's over. You can never undo it, and the person has no choices ever again. It's horrible. And a lot of people have told me since Saturday that they think I did the wrong thing. But what if I hadn't done it? They would have killed us. There was really no mistaking that, with all the Killing Curses they were throwing at us. And then? Then they would have had the school, and they might have tried to capture you and your classmates. Maybe I had no right to take their life away. But does that mean I should just let them take my life away? They have no more right to that than I have to theirs– less, in fact, because I didn't attack them. I would have been perfectly happy to let them go about their business in peace, but they were trying to kill me. And what about all the other people? If I just stood by and let them kill someone else, when I could stop them... wouldn't I be guilty of the death of that person?”

Harry looked around the circle and was pleased to find that all his students looked thoughtful, that none were rejecting his words outright– and none of them were accepting blindly what he had said, either. He gave them a few moments to digest what he had said, but they were children, and soon the first of them were starting to shift in their chairs, attention waning. He recalled the group's attention by raising his hands and giving them a smile.

“It's a difficult topic, and I'm sure we'll end up discussing it frequently during the next few weeks. For today, let's maybe focus on something practical for the rest of this class, how about it?” Eager looks and nods greeted that pronouncement. “Great. Let's have a look at these shield charms, then, that would've been so handy in our exercise. Does anyone already know how to do one? Yes?”The hand of a Ravenclaw third year had shot up, a boy who hadn't spoken up yet, and Harry signalled him to go ahead. 

“The most common Shield Charm is incantated with “Protego” and creates a temporary, invisible wall around the caster that deflects minor curses,” the boy recited. “It's rated at level Eta on the Kosolovsky scale, and the wand movement is a sharp diagonal jab with a circular motion of the tip at the end.”

Harry blinked at the boy. “Er... correct. Now why don't you go ahead and show us how it's done?” 

The boy stared back at him, eyes wide and doubtful, and squirmed in his seat. Harry remembered what Draco had told him about DADA classes in this reality.

“Have you ever actually cast the charm?” he asked the boy gently. He flushed, bit his lip, and shook his head. “Anyone else?” They all sat very still, as if afraid of attracting his attention and being called on. Harry bit back a resigned sign and forced another smile instead. “Very well, I'll show you. Move over a bit so you all can see.” 

The grating of chair legs on stone filled the room for a minute or two as the circle turned into a half circle for better viewing. Harry positioned himself facing his students, flicking his cloak back over his shoulders so his arms were clearly visible. 

“Protego,” he enunciated clearly, calmly, and flicked his wand. The shield snapped into place obediently. He dismissed it, and cast it again. “Go on,” he told the children, “throw something at it.” No one moved, and they all looked vaguely terrified. Harry laughed. “Very well. Mr Rookwood, since you've proven yourself proficient at the Tarantallegra, I order you to cast one on me.” All eyes turned on the Slytherin boy, who looked somewhat embarrassed but pleased with the attention. Slowly, he stood up and pulled his wand from inside his robes... a habit Harry remembered Draco had had as well at his age. 

“Tarantellagra!” It was a bright, strong, well-cast hex that headed towards Harry– and ricocheted off. Rookwood ducked with admirable reflexes and the spell sizzled out against the wall. Harry dismissed the shield again.

“No, stay standing, Mr Rookwood. Come on, everyone, get up and move the chairs out of the way. Please pair yourselves up. I'll partner one of you to even out the numbers, so two people per group, please. Any volunteers to practise with the teacher?” That got him a general titter of giggles and amusement. He found Rookwood watching him, unsmiling. Harry raised a questioning eyebrow, and the boy nodded slowly in return. “Very well, Mr Rookwood, you're with me, then. Form up, the rest of you.”

A few minutes later, the students had distributed themselves in pairs across the classroom. 

“Very well. Now, this Shield Charm, while common, is probably a bit more advanced than most of the magic you've done so far. Not all of you may be able to cast it strongly and reliably yet, but there's no reason not to give it a try. Move your wand decisively, speak clearly, and keep your mind on what you're doing. If you manage to cast a stable shield, have your partner cast a small hex at it. A _small_ hex, mind, preferably one you can end yourselves. Ready? Okay, get started, then.” He surveyed the students for a moment to make sure everyone was participating, then turned his attention to Rookwood. 

The boy was still watching him, and Harry gave him a nod to go ahead. The Slytherin boy's first try didn't result in anything, and Harry watched him carefully as he kept trying, a frown growing more and more pronounced on his face when he failed to get any results. 

“Wait, wait,” Harry stopped him after his fourth unsuccessful try, and stepped up to the frustrated boy. “Watch out for your pronunciation. The stress is on the second syllable, 'Pro-TE-go', and I think your wand movement is a little off. Let me see it again...” Harry stepped up and observed from over the boy's shoulder how he cast the spell. 

“Ah, yes, there it is. You're curving your diagonal jab. Here, watch me. See, the tip of your wand moves straight until the very end. That slashing motion of yours will work splendidly if you try to cast a Cutting Curse, but Shield Charms prefer very straight lines.”

Rookwood stared at him, and Harry wondered whether the boy really did know one or more of the Cutting Curses. He seemed awfully young to be able to do advanced Dark magic, but then again... he was nephew to a Death Eater. Harry had asked the Headmaster about the boy's connections when his name popped up on his sign-up sheet. For now, Harry pretended there was nothing whatsoever about mentioning the Dark Arts and the finer points of their casting to a first-year student, and asked the boy to try the Shield Charm again. After a few more tries, Rookwood managed to cast the beginnings of a shield, inconsistent and without much power, but it was a start. The boy looked disappointed, but Harry gave him a broad smile.

“You're a first-year student. Plenty of adult wizards and witches have trouble with this Charm, so don't feel bad. It's a great start. You've grasped the principle, and as you get older and grow into your magic, you'll be able to cast it with more strength and power. Keep practising, and by the time that Charm shows up on your DADA curriculum, you'll be able to do it in your sleep.” 

That did seem to cheer the boy up somewhat, and Harry moved off among the other students to correct a grip here, a pronunciation there. By the time six o'clock and the end of class rolled around, the results were mixed, but Harry was cautiously optimistic. The first years had done better than he expected, but it was the third years he was worried about. They should have the magical strength and, after two and a half years of classes, the experience to learn to cast the charm consistently. Not with the power it would need to be truly effective, not in most cases, but they should manage to reliably succeed in the casting. They didn't. Their efforts were rewarded only a little more often than those of the younger students, and that worried Harry. He resolved to discuss it with the Headmaster, or maybe with Snape, and ask whether he was simply expecting too much, or whether he just hadn't ended up with the most talented students in the year. There were only five of them, after all.

***


	18. Chapter 18

When Harry crawled into bed that Thursday night, he was tired but satisfied and looked forward to getting to know his other group the next day. He fell asleep only moments after his head touched the pillow.

***

_Everything was bathed in the golden light of a summer afternoon, dust motes swirling in the air. The parchment in front of him was filled with scribbles, lines and curves and circles, and Binn's voice was droning through the classroom. Hermione's bushy head was bent over her own parchment and the scratching of her quill was the only other sound in the room. He knew Ron was next to him, asleep on his desk. His wrists were skinny, and his fingers ink-stained where they held his own quill, fourteen-year old student's fingers. He turned his head and sought out that gleam of pale hair that had to be nearby. Malfoy met his eyes, half-turned around in his own chair. It wasn't as if Binns would notice. He smirked when he caught Harry's gaze._

_They were running through the corridors, the lessons over for the day. Malfoy was chasing him, or maybe he was chasing Malfoy, he wasn't sure. The doors to the Great Hall stood open, laughter and voices and the clatter of cutlery spilling out. Harry ran in, a diffuse sense of urgency pushing him. He had a duel with Malfoy, and he couldn't be late. Sirius would die if he was late._

_Malfoy was waiting for him, pale and skinny and sneering... no, tall and dangerous and smirking._

_“Scared, lover?”_

_“You wish,” he retorted, and they faced each other across the body-strewn stage. Draco rained curses down on him, and he was pushed back, but he was only steps from the end of the stage. He had to cast a Shield Charm, but it was only level Epsilon and Draco was using curses way above that level. That was against the rules, Harry thought angrily, and cast a Cutting Curse in retaliation. Draco ducked it, laughing, his wand lashing out, and thick black ropes shot up out of the stage and wrapped around Harry's limbs. He twisted and struggled while Draco stalked down the length of the stage towards him, wand out, eyes fixed on him. Where were his friends? Where was Ron, where was Hermione? Where was Severus? Why was he alone? This wasn't right. Where was his wand? Incarcerous didn't work on him; he had shields against that! 'Finite Incantatem!' he thought furiously, willing the restriction to disappear. He wanted out of here! He wanted to be free, and he wanted to be away from Draco, who was bearing down on him, an expression of rapture casting an unholy light into his eyes. Harry thrashed..._

and sat up in bed, tangled in his duvet, sweaty and panting. 

His eyes flicked around, but there was no stage, no Draco, only his dark bedroom, the uncertain shapes of his furniture, the grey rectangle of his window. Nothing moved, and his breathing was loud in the silence. Harry shivered, and freed enough of his duvet so he could hug it close. The castle stretched around him, familiar yet not, almost the home he'd had since he was eleven, but not quite. He'd never sat in history lessons here, had never run through these corridors. There was no Ron who'd suffered through Potions with him, and no Hermione who'd stormed out of Divination, and no Draco who'd dressed up as a Dementor to scare him. It was dark, it was cold, and he was alone, so very alone, more alone than he'd been since he was eleven years old. 

A sob caught in his throat, and he hugged his arms, full of duvet, tighter to himself. Loneliness threatened to strangle him, to drown him in the darkness and silence of the castle, the wrong castle. He wanted his friends, he wanted someone who understood him. With shaking hands he pushed away the duvet and crawled out of bed. He dressed quickly, threw his cloak on, inside out, and slipped out his door. 

The castle was eerie and strange as he hurried down stairways and along corridors. He'd been out of his bed often enough after curfew, but tonight the silence and the darkness chased a shiver up his spine, and not even the fact that he was wrapped in an invisibility cloak could make him feel safe– it was the wrong cloak. 

After what felt like an eternity but he knew rationally couldn't have been more than ten minutes, he arrived at a familiar stretch of stone wall in the dungeons. It was late, and he felt bad about possibly waking Snape, but... he couldn't not do it. He rapped on the wall, and hoped for a quick answer. As he stood there in the cold, damp corridor, he pulled his cloak off– just in time, as he had barely shivered once before the door was yanked open, to reveal Snape's black scowl. The man blinked, however, when he caught sight of Harry, and his expression lost some of it's ferocity. 

“I'm sorry,” Harry said quickly. “I know it's late, and I'm sorry for disturbing you, but... could I come in?”

Snape frowned at him in obvious consternation, but stepped back and held open his door in silent invitation. Harry hurried in, and released a shuddery breath of relief as the familiarity and comfort of Snape's quarters wrapped around him. Snape gestured him to an armchair and took a seat in the other one himself, spelling the banked fire back to life. Harry sank into the upholstery, warm and soft like an embrace, and relaxed. Snape raised a questioning eyebrow at him, and he felt a blush crawl up his cheeks and ears. He was being silly and irrational, letting a dream get to him like this, but, he acknowledged, he needed this. 

“I'm sorry,” he said again. “But I woke up from a dream, and... God, it made me homesick. Everything here felt _wrong_.” He shrugged, helpless to describe the intensity of the emotions, the longing, the choking loneliness the dream had left him with. “It made me miss my friends,” he admitted. “I needed to be somewhere else, to have some company.”

“And so you chose to come to _me_?” Snape asked, sceptical but not overly contemptuous. “Why did you not go to Mr Malfoy? It would have saved you a trip through the castle.”

Harry shrugged, then shook his head. “No, I... Not him. I couldn't have faced him. He would've reminded me too much of home.”

“And I do not?”

Harry smiled a little. “Of course you do. But not in a bad way. You're... you're safe.” He looked up into unreadable black eyes and shrugged again to convey his helplessness to explain himself better. 

Snape gave him a very sceptical raised eyebrow, but didn't press the issue. “So what did you plan on doing now that you are here?”

“Could I stay?” Harry asked, aware that he was quite pathetically begging.

“Stay?” Snape's eyebrows shot up. “Here?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. Could I spend the rest of the night on your couch?”

Snape looked doubtful, but eventually inclined his head. 

“If you must. The house elves can supply you with the necessities, I'm sure. If you'll excuse me, I will be retiring then.”

He rose, and Harry gave him a grateful smile. 

“Thank you,” he answered sincerely. “Good night.”

Snape inclined his head once more and then swept out of the room in a swirl of black robes. Harry watched him go with a touch of wistfulness, then shook himself out of it and called a house elf for sheets and blankets. Minutes later, he curled up on the couch in the dim light and warmth of the once-more banked fire, and let the familiar scents and atmosphere lull him back to sleep.

***

He woke, groggy and disoriented. It took only a moment to recognize Snape's quarters, and he wondered what he was doing out here on the couch– until he remembered how long it had been, and why he wouldn't be sharing Severus' bed. Now, in the light of day, his upset of the night seemed excessive, and he felt his face heat as he untangled himself from the blankets. Running to Snape because of a bad dream– God, the man had to think he was a child!

If he did, he didn't show it. Instead, he nodded cordially at Harry as he stepped out of his bedroom, closing the last button of his robes as he did so. 

Groping for a topic of conversation as they prepared to head to breakfast, Harry remembered his third years from yesterday. 

“I was wondering... I had my first class yesterday...”

“I am aware,” Snape told him dryly, and held the door open for him. 

Harry gave him a look as he preceded him out into the corridor. “ _Anyway_ , I was wondering, because I was teaching Shield Charms...”

“Shield Charms? Are you not teaching first and second years, mostly?” 

Harry gave him another look for this second interruption. 

“Yes, I am. What about it?”

“Shield Charms are rather too advanced for them, don't you think? They're only on the curriculum in third year. Children that young can't hope to produce an acceptable shield.”

“It won't hurt them to know the theory, and actually, the young ones did great. It's the third years I'm wondering about. I have five of them, and none of them performed nearly to my expectations. Did I happen to end up with a singularly untalented bunch?”

“Excuse me if I'm not aware of who precisely signed up for your little project.”

Harry rolled his eyes, ignored the sarcasm, and told him the names. 

Snape frowned. “The other three are average students, but Miss Merryweather and Mr Reid are at the top of their classes. Of course, I mainly know their skills in potion making, but I'm surprised to hear that they didn't meet your expectations. They are Ravenclaws, after all.”

“Well, Reid certainly knew the dictionary definition of a Shield Charm. He didn't have much luck actually casting it, though.”

“It is unlikely that he has had occasion to ever cast it before,” Snape informed him. 

Harry gave an impatient huff. “I _know_! But I would have expected him to do better than a first-year like Rookwood when he had the opportunity to try and ample instruction!”

“And he did not?” Now Snape sounded just a touch consternated. 

“No, not in any significant way. Oh, sure, there was a bit more power to the beginnings of a shield he was able to produce, but he didn't succeed any more often in his casting than the first years, and it wasn't any more stable than theirs when he did.”

Snape was quiet for a while as they strode down the corridor towards the stairs. An early-rising Slytherin ahead of them turned to look at the sound of their footsteps, and Harry wondered ruefully whether the entire school would be aware that Professor Evans had appeared for breakfast from the dungeons. God knew he would've taken note of someone willingly spending time with Snape when he'd been a student. Of course, by the time he reached the age of this tall, young man he'd been the one to spend his time with Snape. 

“I can't say I have any advice for you on the matter,” Snape finally told him when they were ascending the stairs. “Defence Against the Dark Arts is a notoriously difficult subject. Perhaps it would be prudent for you to adjust your expectations?”

Harry couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the man. “ _You_ are telling _me_ to adjust my expectations? _You_?!”

“I am not the one who has eleven-year olds casting Shield Charms,” Snape told him acidly. 

“No,” Harry agreed sweetly. “You just expect them to know Phyllida Spore's _Thousand Herbs and Funghi_ by heart at the start of their very first Potions lesson.”

“I assure you, I do no such thing. From your tone, however, I assume this is a personal matter?”

Harry huffed. “Your alternate self asked me a bunch of questions I had no hope of answering the very first time I sat in your classroom, and I hadn't even _done_ anything! I was writing down every bloody word you were saying!” Okay, saying it out loud, Harry recognized how sulky he sounded, and maybe it was time to put that specific incident behind him. 

He shot a look at the Snape next to him ( _not_ the man who had humiliated him so long ago), and had to do a double-take. Because, that... that was definitely _amusement_ on the man's face. Subtle, yes, but that faint curl of lips, the glitter in those black eyes, he knew that. 

“Sometimes,” Snape told him, “I forget how young you are.”

“Condescending bastard,” Harry grumbled back and shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn't have to look at him again to know Snape was smirking at him. Right at this moment, though, he preferred to keep his eyes on the worn stone steps in front of him. That look on Snape's face, the rumble of his voice, condescending, yes, but with this touch of fondness– it all reminded him of the man he'd lost two years ago, the man who'd been so much to him. It hurt. It made him ache with loss and it made him _want_ – want it all back. 

“Have I said something wrong?”

That made Harry look over again after all. Snape's voice was carefully neutral, but the fact alone that he asked the question was rather more consideration than Harry was used to. 

“No,” he assured him hurriedly. “No, it's just... Sometimes it's difficult to deal with this whole alternate reality business.”

“Ah. Yes, I would imagine so.”

They crossed the Entrance Hall in silence and took their seats at the teachers' table as the Great Hall slowly filled with students.

***

Harry's second class went smoothly enough despite the fact that he still felt a little out of sorts. Last night's dream kept haunting him with a feeling of unreality, a vague, floaty sense of detachment. The walls he saw were still the wrong walls, the people he met the wrong people. He shook his head at himself. A good night's sleep, that was what he needed. As long as he wasn't haunted by any more dreams of Hogwarts, his Hogwarts, he'd be fine.

“So, how do you find teaching?” Lily asked him at dinner, regarded him with sincere green eyes– the same green he saw in the mirror when he shaved every morning. 

“It's fine,” he answered. 

“The children aren't giving you any trouble?”

Harry looked at her, puzzled. “No. Why, should they?”

Lily laughed. She did have a very nice laugh, clear and unrestrained. Harry marvelled at how different she was from her sister. Aunt Petunia had never laughed, not that he could remember. Or was that different here? Had his own mother been very different from this woman? 

“Well, they are children. They can be... unruly. Especially with younger or new teachers. And considering the subject matter you teach... I'm a little surprised no one needed to go to the hospital wing.”

Harry smiled and shook his head. “No, they were fine.” He considered for a moment. “I really like teaching, I think.”

Lily's eyes crinkled as she smiled back at him. “It's rewarding, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, and found himself sharing an odd moment of understanding with her. It was interrupted by Snape's disparaging snort from his other side. He turned and grinned at the man. 

“Let me guess: foolish Gryffindor sentimentalism.” He did his best impression of disdainful Snape and judging from the slight curl of the man's lips, he managed pretty well. 

“Indeed, Professor Evans. You will soon find that most of your effort will fly right over their airy little heads.”

'Professor Evans' sounded very strange out of Snape's mouth. He shrugged. “They did fine by my standards.”

Snape arched an eyebrow. “No more trouble with those Shield charms?”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, okay, except for that. Can you believe it? Not even Talbot managed, and he's a fourth year. Ravenclaw, to boot.”

“It is a difficult charm. Many adult wizards and witches are not proficient with it.”

Harry grunted. “I'm aware, and it's a disgrace. Right there, that's a point where we could make Voldemort's life so much harder with very little effort.”

“True enough,” Snape conceded. 

When Harry returned to his rooms after dinner, he found a note waiting for him announcing an Order meeting the next evening. About time, Harry thought. It had already been a week since the attack, and they needed a more efficient response to any future ones. He hesitated a moment, then he grabbed a roll of parchment and a quill and started taking notes. 

It used to be Hermione who did that when the three of them sat together and tossed around ideas of what needed to be discussed. As he scribbled on his parchment, alone on his sofa, he missed them fiercely.

***

Harry squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before he walked into his second Order meeting in this world. He'd been here almost a month, it was time for him to find his feet. Today, he was determined to pull his weight. And he wouldn't let himself be provoked by Prattleworth (and wasn't that just a fitting name?), and he wouldn't miss Ron, miss Hermione, and he wouldn't let McGonagall's suspiciousness or Sirius' hostility throw him off, and he wouldn't wrap his hands around Pettigrew's scrawny throat and squeeze until the rat was blue in the face, no, he wouldn't. _Not the same person_ , he reminded himself.

People were still milling around the room when he stepped through the door, standing and talking in little groups. Harry didn't see Snape anywhere, nor Lily, and he didn't want to try his luck with the Weasleys, so he leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. 

He was deep in absent-minded contemplation of the tips of his boots, going over his agenda in his head, sorting out his arguments and how to best present them, when someone almost stumbled into him. 

“Oh, so sorry, excuse me!” the man said, and Harry looked up into the contrite face of Remus Lupin. 

He couldn't help but smile. “Remus! Don't worry about it. How are you?”

Remus blinked, surprise on his face, and Harry couldn't keep his face from falling. 

He sighed. “Don't tell me, my alternate self was a prat to you, too.”

Remus chuckled softly. “Not too much of one, I assure you. Though he rarely spoke to me once he started Hogwarts.”

“Oh yes, that's so much better,” Harry told him dryly, and Remus laughed again. 

“May I?” he asked and indicated the spot of wall next to Harry. 

“Sure.”

Remus leaned back next to him with a soft breath of relief. Harry studied him with a bit of worry. 

“So, how are you? You look tired.”

“I am that,” Remus admitted. “Thank you for asking, Harry.”

Harry shrugged the thanks off with a twitch of his shoulders against the wall. “We're between full moons, aren't we? Will you be okay?”

Again, Remus' eyebrows arched in surprise. “So we are. And yes, I'll be fine. I'm simply not as young as I once was.” He gave a wry little smile. 

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. “You're what, forty-one? Hardly an age where you need to sound like Dumbledore. And yes, I do keep track of the full moon. It's a habit you acquire when some of your best friends and some of your worst enemies are werewolves.”

Remus shifted a little, a motion almost like a very suppressed shudder. “Ah. Well, I suppose you're right. Speaking of which, there is Albus and it seems we're about to get started. If you'll excuse me...?” He stepped away from the wall with a cordial nod at Harry and moved off to take a seat next to Sirius– who was glowering fiercely at Harry and leaned in to hiss a question into Remus' ear, knuckles white where his hand gripped the back of Remus' chair behind Remus' shoulder. 

Harry tried to keep his face blank even though he wanted to glare at Sirius, and took his own seat at the table, in the chair he'd previously occupied. He nodded a greeting at Snape, who must've come in while he wasn't looking and was already seated, while he wondered what he'd said to chase Remus away.

Again, the first part of the meeting was filled with reports. Harry didn't quite understand the necessity of chewing over every scaremongering _Prophet_ article and hysterical _Witch Weekly_ letter to the editor, but he forced himself to listen. After all, he didn't have Hermione to recap any essential points he might have missed for him later. 

Finally, they got around to the attack on Hogwarts, which, as far as Harry was concerned, was the only major news of the past two weeks. Several doubtful or apprehensive looks came his direction as Dumbledore gravely recounted the battle. Harry ignored them.

***

As the meeting moved into the discussion of last week's attack, Lily watched as Harry sat forward, eyes intent, hands folded on the table. He'd been quiet so far, listening, and he'd listened last time, mostly. But now he jumped into the discussion with both feet. There was consternation around the table as he announced “What we need are emergency protocols, and we need them _now_ ,” voice deep and strong with conviction. Albus asked him to elaborate into the silence that followed, and Harry did, spoke about response times and tactical positions, about the need to clearly determine strengths and weaknesses of the castle and everyone in attendance to defend it, about evacuation routes and sites for the students, about practise drills. His words were precise and authoritative, his body language calm but engaged. He spoke like someone who was used to being listened to. He spoke like a leader.

There was no trace of a child in him. He was young, yes, but he was a man. 

He was an adult in the way her son had not been, despite the fact that they were the same age, almost exactly. And it hurt to see him, to see this strong, determined young man, and to compare him to her son, and to find her son so lacking. How had she failed so badly? Seeing this example of the man her son could have been, how had she gone so wrong? She'd _loved_ him. Did that count for so little? How had her sister done such a better job of raising her son than she and James had– when, by all indications Harry had given, there had not been much love lost between him and his aunt? And yet, here was the proof, in front of her eyes. Here was a version of her son who was pleasant and polite, mature and responsible, with no hate of Muggleborns... _or_ Slytherins. Yes. Not only had Petunia apparently made a better mother, Severus Snape apparently made a better mentor. 

Lily had no part in the rivalry between Severus and the Marauders. No, she respected the man he had become, had pitied the boy he had been. But Severus was a difficult man to like, full of sharp edges, smart and impatient and unkind. As such, he had never done too well with the children, and she found it hard to understand what a teenager had seen in him to become as attached as Harry obviously was. 

She was pulled out of her thoughts when the discussion about Harry's suggestions took off in earnest. Emotionally painful for her his presence might be, but his ideas and experience were valuable if they wanted any chance at all of winning this war, and so she would not let his sceptics toss out perfectly reasonable safety measures merely because they had neither liked nor trusted her son.

***

Harry sank into his armchair with a sigh. It wasn't particularly late yet, but the meeting had been... exhausting. He frowned. He wasn't sure how happy he was with the results. Sure, most of his emergency measures were being implemented. But it had taken an unconscionably long time to get there. He wasn't used to this... bickering. He was used to tense, focused meetings where Hermione wielded the agenda with iron efficiency, not this waffling back and forth, and he couldn't for the life of him remember what meetings had been like before Hermione took over their direction. He'd thought _those_ were exhausting. But at least they stayed on track, focused on their goals and how to reach them, and walked out with results in a minimum of time– and the feeling that they were all a team, all working for the same cause. At least, he thought morosely, people used to trust him.

A knock disrupted his brooding before he could get properly started, and he looked up to find Draco leaning against the door frame of their connecting door. Upon seeing he had Harry's attention, he waltzed into the room and flopped down onto Harry's couch, sprawled across the entirety of it with his feet on an armrest, crossed at the ankles, arms tucked behind his head. 

Harry stared. 

“I'm bored!” the blond announced, and then looked expectantly at Harry. 

Harry, meanwhile, was still trying to assimilate the fact that Draco Malfoy had just taken over his couch without so much as a by your leave. On the one hand, that was just so typically, infuriatingly arrogant Harry wanted to snap. On the other hand, stretched out like that, Draco was so very defenceless, so at a disadvantage that Harry didn't know what to feel about it. Then again, maybe he did know, because it rather did display Draco's long legs and flat chest and broad shoulders, and there was one thing Harry always felt about _that_. _Then_ again, it reminded him of the way snotty twelve-year old Malfoy had sprawled in his common room all those years ago when Harry and Ron had snuck in with the Polyjuice, and that memory was just painful. 

“Well?” Draco demanded, and Harry blinked. 

“Well what?”

“Well I'm bored! Do something!”

“Excuse me?” Harry really thought he should be offended, but he had a hard time suppressing a smirk instead.

Draco sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling. “You could've warned me that this house arrest-thing would be so bloody _boring_ , you know? I can't just read all the time!” He turned his head to look at Harry again. “Come on, let's do something.”

“Like what?” The idea of doing anything of a social nature with Draco Malfoy, just _because_ , was just so far out of Harry's experience he drew a complete blank. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “I don't know. Something!” His eyes wandered around the room, and then he pushed himself up on his elbows. “Hey, teach me sword-fighting.”

Harry just stared at him– again. Every instinct in his body was shrieking in denial at the thought of making Draco Malfoy any more dangerous than he already was. 

“What?” Draco asked, and there was a whine in his tone that belied the idea that he could ever be dangerous. “Harry! C' _mon_!” He lifted a foot and gave Harry's leg a petulant kick. “Since when did you become such a stick in the mud, anyway?”

“I can't just teach you to sword-fight,” Harry finally rallied enough to say. “It's not something you can learn in between dinner and bedtime.”

Draco rolled his eyes at him. “I didn't think so. Honestly, I just want to _do_ something, and I sit around on my arse all day while you're off being a _professor_ and saving the world!” 

“Fine,” Harry said. “All right, fine.” He looked around, then grabbed two quills and transfigured them into wooden practise swords. One of them ended up a little fuzzy around the edges and the other kept the bands of colour from the feather, but they were solid enough. Draco, of course, raised a very doubtful eyebrow when Harry handed him the striped wooden sword. 

“What?” Harry asked as he climbed to his feet, ready for the disparaging comment concerning his transfiguration skills. 

“Wood? Really?” Draco pouted. There was no other word for it. “It looks like a kid's toy.”

Harry gave him a look. “You don't start out learning sword-fighting with a life blade. And believe me, these smart plenty when they hit you.” He couldn't help but smirk. “Remember you asked for this when you count your bruises tomorrow.”

That, at least, made Draco pause as he rolled to his feet (not as graceful as his counterpart would have, Harry thought. He lacked that precise, deadly economy of motion.) 

“Harry... You're aware I just want to have some fun, right?”

Harry grinned. “Scared, Malfoy?” He waved his wand to move the furniture aside, then fell into an easy stance, sword up and ready in challenge. 

Draco scowled and raised his own sword. “Ha. You wish.” 

His centre of gravity was too far forward and too high up, his upper body too tense.

Harry grinned– darted forward, brought his sword down hard on Draco's, and as he toppled forwards, side-stepped and smacked him in the back of the knee– not nearly as hard as he could have. 

“And if that'd been a real blade, you'd be crippled now, and so probably dead.”

Draco righted himself, and scowled. 

Harry gave him a sunny smile. 

Far from taking offence, Draco's lips twitched, and then he was grinning back. Harry had to fight to keep the smile up, because his jaw suddenly really wanted to drop to the floor. 

“You're a prat,” Draco told him, not at all like he meant it. “How'd you do that?”

And so Harry did actually spend the evening teaching Draco Malfoy how to wield a deadly weapon. And he had fun while he did it, too.

***


End file.
